Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them. Not even that dang horse sniff

Side Notes:

Le Chat Noir – Again, another huge thank you for your help with the ballet research!

Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions and wonderful eye for catching mistakes – you are the best:)

To Turn Back Time

The house was as quiet as the grave; the only sound to be heard was the crackle and pop of the dying fire and the soft, cadenced ticking of the mantle clock in the library.

Erik leaned forward in the wingbacked chair, his fingers steepled against his lips in intense study. How long had he sat there, simply watching her? Minutes? Hours, perhaps? The fire he had stocked not that long ago had again burned to a dull glow, bathing her still, sleeping form in orange firelight.

Upon arriving home, he had immediately retired to his rooms to wash away the layer of grime from the incident in the alley, purging all evidence from his body of the horror he had just committed. His wounds cleaned and bandaged and fresh Indian silk nightclothes donned, he had grabbed up his black robe and quietly made his way down the dark hallway.

The Chagny household had long since found their rooms per his written instructions, and retired for the night before he had even returned from the docks. Therefore, the roam of the house had been his—or so he had thought. For when he entered the library, he had discovered that one person had waited for him to return, the lines of worry etched about her face emphasized by the soft glow from the fire…

Christine's eyes flew up from her book in surprise as she heard the soft swish of his robes at the back of her chair.

"Erik!" she cried with relief, leaping up to fling her arms about him. He grasped her shoulders in the nick of time, preventing any further damage to his injured ribs.

Worry flooded back into her eyes as they flicked over his face and neck, noting the bruises and scratches scattered about his skin.

"What has happened?" she whispered fearfully. "Were you followed? Why have you taken so long to return?"

Still clutching at her shoulders, Erik raised a long finger to her lips to silence the stream of questions.

"Tomorrow, my dear child. We shall discuss everything in the morning. It is very late—perhaps you should retire for the night?" he cajoled, soothing away her anxiety. For at that moment, he wished for nothing more than to be alone in his wretchedness.

The woman shook her head, not understanding his gentle hints. "I cannot sleep, so I think I shall stay up and read a bit."

"Very well; good night, then." Erik turned to leave the room, but froze mid-stride as she called to him.

"Please stay—" she cried, her words rushing out. "You obviously came here for a purpose, so don't let my presence drive you away. Besides," the Comtesse said more softly, her eyes pleading with his. "I have missed the nights we used to spend in this manner, in your parlour in Paris…when you used to read to me…" she lowered her eyes under his scrutinizing gaze, her cheeks flushing slightly.

"Never mind," she murmured. "It was foolish—"

"What would you like me to read?" the man sighed in resignation. He stooped to pick up the slender book that she had discarded, every muscle aching in protest. His eyes glanced over the cover, and they sparked with amusement. "You were reading the Rubáiyát?"

The woman nodded innocently.

"Christine, it is written in Persian."

"Well, I wasn't really reading it," the girl stammered in explanation, offended by his patronizing tone. "It was sitting on the little table next to the chair, and it had lovely pictures…what is it about, exactly?"

Erik's mouth twitched with enjoyment at the exchange. "It's an ancient book of poetry, mainly about wine and lovers. Of course, it has quite a bit of allegorical insight, as well." He settled himself into the great chair and motioned to the footstool at his feet. Christine took her place at his side and leaned her dark head lightly against the armrest.

"I shall read each passage in the original Persian, then translate it for you, if you like." The teacher glanced down at the top of his pupil's curly head, and at her slight nod, opened to the first page. He lightly cleared his throat and began reading.

Christine sighed with contentment as she listened to the smooth rhythms of the ancient language trip and flow from her angel's sensitive mouth. She closed her eyes and imagined herself in a warm land glowing in the bright mid-eastern sun, away from cold London and the terrors that it held.

"The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,

Moves on: Nor all thy Piety nor Wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it…"

"Beautiful," the woman murmured, her eyelids heavy with sleep. "What does it mean?"

Erik painfully closed his eyes as the ancient Persian wisdom entered his heart. "It means that the past simply cannot be erased, no matter how hard we wish for it..."

He swallowed against the lump in his throat and ran his long, white fingers through her dark curls, lost in thought. The girl moved her head slightly under the gentle administrations of his hand, and rested her cheek against the smooth silk that covered his knee. The material was a flimsy barrier from the softness of her skin, and the warmth of her flushed face caused Erik to shift uncomfortably.

"Persia…" the girl murmured, her voice low and drowsy. "How lovely it would be to travel there. Perhaps when we leave London…"

Erik placed a finger gently under her chin and tilted her face up to meet his.

"You understand, Christine," her angel said calmly, firmly, "that I must never return there, for reasons you know nothing of. Perhaps one of these days I shall tell you…"

The man reclined into his chair, careful of his bruised midsection. He studied her sleeping form, disbelief still stirring in every bone of his body.

How many times had he imagined her like this, in his dreams? And now she was truly in front of him, living and breathing; not some ghostlike doppelganger that would disappear with the morning light.

Christine was stretched out upon the rug in front of the fireplace, having been lulled to sleep by his smooth voice. One hand was tucked neatly under her cheek; the other lazily extended out across the rug. The low fire burned and flickered behind her, illuminating the contours of her face in warm contrasts and shadows.

Then she stirred slightly and turned to lie on her back, an arm draped gracefully across her waist. Her chest rose and fell slowly, softly; his insides knotted with every inhale…exhale…

And Erik knew that he truly was lost.

Suddenly, he felt very old and tired. Weary of the killing, of the darkness…what was it that Nadir had said?

"If you let the violent tempests of your past control you, you shall have no hope for the quiet water you so desperately seek…"

Mon Dieu, he thought, I have lived too long in the past. If I am ever to have peace in this lifetime, these demons must be exorcised, once and for all.

Sighing from weariness of body and mind, he cautiously knelt next to his sleeping protégé and slipped his arms under her limp form. Clutching her warm body to his chest, he rose again and slowly made his way from the library, careful of her limbs as he passed through the doorway. The man quietly moved through the dark house, down the hallways, until he came to her rooms. And as gently as possible, he placed the Comtesse on her bed, pulled a blanket about her, and inaudibly shut the door behind him.

Tomorrow, he firmly decided, I must tell her everything—the killings in Persia, the murder last night. And by God, if she is not afraid after that, then I shall ask her to be my wife.

Hale's warning be damned.

The young singer floundered about in the dank, murky waters, panic seizing hold of her mind. She frantically gathered up the ruined gauzy skirts of the wedding dress, stumbling closer to the porticullis.

"Raoul!" she cried, struggling towards the two men heatedly embroiled in a battle of wills; one with a noose around his neck, the other, holding the end of the rope. "Please, don't say another word—he will kill you!"

Her angel turned his cold, gleaming eyes upon her, his gruesome features further contorted in madness and rage. "Your confidence in me is touching, my dear," the man snarled viciously, "but your pathetic sniveling and weeping truly begin to try my patience! Your decision, Mademoiselle Daaé—a life with this loathsome monster before you, or the death of your beloved Vicomte?"

Christine closed her eyes in torment, vicious sobs wracking through her body. Paying no heed to the pleas from Raoul to flee, she slowly raised her face towards the heavens.

"Oh God," she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Give me courage…"

The warm rays of the morning sun filtered in through the great bay window of the Comtesse's bedroom, chasing away the shadows of night and the nightmare that clung to them. A beam shone across her face; as her lids flew open from the blinding intrusion, she quickly raised a hand to shield the bright light from her drowsy, sensitive eyes.

The woman sat up with a start of confusion, then settled back down again as the vivid images gradually began to loose their hold on her. Still trembling from her dream, she pressed a shaky hand to her heart, trying to calm its rapid beating.

"Raoul…" she breathed, her dead husband's pleas still clinging to her ears. This dream had come to her many times before, especially in the black weeks after her Vicomte's death. But as time passed and the sting of grief began to fade away, the dreams had gone with it.

It is no wonder that the nightmare has been resurrected, she pondered, as the previous night's mysterious events and subsequent fear for Erik's safety trickled back to her fuzzy mind.

Ever so slowly, her unfamiliar surroundings came into focus. Not in the opera house, but the town home…Erik's home…

Yesterday evening, the entire house had been shrouded in shadows. Only the soft, flickering candlelight had offered any glimpse of their new residence—and what she had observed had not told her much. In the fresh morning light, however, she soaked in the lovely, tasteful furnishings of her boudoir.

The walls were done in a smooth, cream color, with a gorgeous blue-gray rug covering the length of the dark wood floor underneath. A light blue ornamental border had been stenciled around the upper perimeter of the room, enhancing its classic British charm. Full, dramatic silvery drapes covered the large windows, save for the one that had been pulled open to allow the sunlight to spill in.

Papi must be up and about, Christine observed, glancing at the small brass clock above the mantle. She swung her feet around to the side of the dark mahogany sleigh bed and moved about the room, taking in its delicate, feminine touches. A cream-colored petite chair dressed with a chenille throw was placed next to the bay window.

According to Erik's note, the family that owned the house was currently residing in Tuscany until the summer's end, and had allowed their solicitor to lease the home in the meantime. That accounted for the peculiar dainty furnishings throughout the rooms, so unlike Erik, but extremely pleasing to herself.

She ran her fingers lightly over the rich blue of the wrap, then pulled it about her shoulders, enfolding herself in its newness. A mahogany dresser was placed in a corner behind the chair, topped by a large gilded mirror done in silver paint and accented with small gold stars. She peered at her reflection, then pulled back her wild curls and loosely plaited them down her neck. Tucking a few loose strands behind her ears, she smiled slightly, and turned to the wooden surface of the dresser, where an assortment of boxes and bottles were arranged, all new and carefully selected. Christine pulled the stopper from one of the bath oils and inhaled the sweet fragrance.

Lavender…

The woman smiled gently at the careful attention her angel had given to her comfort, causing her heart to ache with love for him. So different from the man in my ghastly dream…

But perhaps the most touching action of all was the fact that he had placed her son's room next to hers, separated by only a door, instead of secreting the small boy away in the nursery, as was the custom in most British and French households.

The mother quietly opened the door to Jean-Paul's room; satisfied that he was still lost in sleep, she grabbed up her dressing gown and pitter-pattered down the hallway to explore the rest of the house. She worked her way down the hall and through the next wing, sheepishly opening doors left and right. A small amount of trepidation tugged at her conscience—a feeling that she was somehow snooping in places that she should not. Common sense, however, told her it was perfectly fine to explore the lay of the house, since it was her home now, as well.

A heavy door at the end of the hallway opened onto a brightly carpeted staircase, leading up to the top floor. Christine picked up a small lamp from the table along the wall and made her way up the creaky stairs. She emerged into the tucked-away room and raised the lamp to glance about. Spotting several windows, she pulled back the rather dusty curtains until the entire room was bathed in light. A smile of delight lit her face at her discovery. Just as she had suspected—the nursery!

Colorful toys were scattered about the furniture, brimming from a green chest at the foot of the little wooden twin bed. Bright, cheerful tapestries depicting several nursery rhymes covered the walls. A miniature Noah's Ark, complete with giraffes, elephants, lions—even ordinary animals, like sheep and horses—was situated upon an area rug in the middle of the room. Just to the left, displayed prominently on a small table was an intricate puppet theatre, complete with a full cast of Punch and Judy characters. She laughed, and tugged at the rascally Mr. Punch's jester hat, jingling the little bells at the ends.

A bag of glass marbles sat upon the nightstand next to the bed, its contents spilling from the burlap and about the floor. Christine stooped over, plucked up each marble, placed them back into the bag, then pulled the string taught and knotted it. Standing on her toes, she shoved the marble bag onto the top shelf of the bookcase, out of reach from the prying fingers of her toddler. She glanced over the room to see if any other small, dangerous objects were scattered about; satisfied, she made her way down to the lower levels, making a mental note to show Jean-Paul the fairytale room right after breakfast.

Again, she wandered down the hallway, past Papi's and Norry's rooms, and into the west wing of the house. Opening more doors along the path, she was disappointed to discover that most of them were either empty or guest rooms. She tried another knob to her left and to her surprise, found that it would not budge. Jiggling the handle a bit, Christine puzzled over the locked door, then stepped away in embarrassment as she heard a gruff mumbling from the other side. With a start, she realized that the room must be Erik's, and was locked for a reason. She turned on her heels and fled down the stairs to the main floor, before the man caught her snooping about.

The Comtesse was now in familiar territory, having explored most of this level the previous evening in her search for the library. She walked past the library and study until she came to the room just beyond the parlour. In the darkness last night, and without the assistance of a lamp, she had been unable to decide exactly what purpose the large, vacant-sounding room served. Now that she had thrown back the heavy velvet drapes, she saw that the great empty space was, in fact, a small ballroom, complete with glossy wooden floors and a lovely grand piano.

With a giddy bounce to her step, she turned twice about the room, getting a good feel for the floor beneath her. Then scuttling to ease the door shut, she kicked away her slippers and moved over to the windowpane that faced the small garden behind the house. The girl drew up the hem of her thankfully loose nightgown, and in the absence of a ballet barre, eased her foot onto the window ledge to practice her turnout.

Pressing her palms against her thigh, the dancer concentrated on her stretches, patiently willing her muscles to follow her direction. Then she leaned back and arched her spine, her head held high. Madame Giry's stern instructions floated back to her from her years with the corps de ballet, as if the ballet mistress were standing right behind her.

Posture, Christine Daaé, posture! Stretch upwards, as if a string is attached to the top of your head. Now pull yourself from the bottom of your feet and up through your spine, as if the string runs through your entire body…

The girl slowly eased herself back to the ground again, her entire being refreshed, energy coursing through her loose limbs. She breathed deeply and turned to the center of the room to go through her relève retire.

"You still dance, then?" came a soft voice from across the room, and Christine whirled around in surprise, quickly smoothing her nightgown down around her ankles and pulling her dressing robe more tightly about her waist.

"Yes," she managed to choke out, her face aflame in pure embarrassment. "After Jean-Paul was born, I continued with my dancing to tone my …" Her explanation fell away as she glanced up at her angel leaning against the doorframe, still in his silks and black robe from the night before. The white mask was, as always, firmly in place. His hair, however, was slightly tousled, and a shadow of stubble graced his jawline and chin, lending a rather rugged look that was such a sharp contrast to his usual clean-cut, pristine appearance. She lowered her eyes to the floor and studied her crooked dancer's toes; with another wave of mortification at her bare feet, she searched about the room for the location of her discarded slippers.

Erik eased away from the doorframe and moved stiffly towards the girl, his ribs painfully sore after his restless sleep. He chuckled softly at her innocent propriety and gently took her by the elbow, leading her towards the piano and away from her slippers at the door.

"Come now, Christine, we have seen each other in various stages of…informality before, and it has never bothered you," he coaxed. "However, I truly apologize for the intrusion. I heard somebody at my door, and I thought that perhaps I was needed." Releasing her arm, he moved over to the piano and slid back the lid from the ivory keys. He seated himself at the bench, straightened his back, then nodded to her to continue her exercises.

The girl hesitated slightly, but when the familiar, soothing melodies began to float about her, she moved over to the piano, laid her hand lightly on its edge, and went through her positions: first…second…third…, with a demi-plié in each, adding a battement tendu to the sequence as she could. As she felt her joints become more pliable and her balance more controlled, she moved to an Échappé sur les demi pointes, including a slight spring between the demi-plié and her positions. When she reversed sides, her eyes briefly met her angel's. He smiled at her, and she allowed herself to relax as his beautiful music swirled about her.

Erik played no particular song, simply preferring to let his fingers glide over the keys as the music commanded him. A stanza or two in a soft, gentle pianissimo would suddenly crescendo to a desperate forte, his fingertips flying back and forth along the keyboard in a strange, turbulent dance. And then the pounding chords would again give way to the pianissimo, and his brow would knit in concentration as the sweet melody teased at his senses. Yet somehow, throughout the range of emotions expressed in each piece, the man still managed to keep some semblance of a steady tempo, in consideration of her strict ballet passages.

Christine closed her eyes as her angel's music washed through her, infusing her with the desired grace of movement. She eased into her port de bras, her arms sweeping about her elegantly, then arching above her head. She raised her poised neck in a perfect ligne, the sunlight from the window now shining upon her dark curls, warming her face in its brilliance. Slowly moving her arms from position to position, she was so focused on the meticulous passages that it took several minutes for her to recognize the familiar song.

Elissa's aria from Hannibal. My aria, which I bravely sang for my teacher, all those years ago…

Her eyes turned to the man at the piano, and she saw that his were locked on her every movement, the gold now dark and smoldering with some intensity far beyond her understanding. The dancer slowly relaxed her arms, letting them fall limply to her sides as his gaze drew her in. A single tear trickled down the man's face and his eyes closed in pain.

"'There will never be a day'…No truer words have been sung," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "I have often thought of you like this, Christine; the sun streaming through your hair and gown, lighting your face." He smiled faintly, turning his gaze to the window. "Its rather amusing, that after all my curses against the daylight, I would remember you thus."

His eyes fell to hers again, the sparking intensity now returning. "I never believed that I would see you again, after that night I set you free. And I was quite resigned to it, I assure you," the man sighed. "Even when I placed that foolish message in the Epoque, I truly did not expect you to come; after all, you chose him. Married him."

"Erik, I am sorry…" The girl held out a hand, not knowing quite how to respond to his confession.

He slowly rose from the piano and advanced towards her. "My actions were inexcusable—I do not even know what I would have done if you had come to me—" his voice broke as he stepped closer. "—but I wanted to see your face just once more."

Her teacher cautiously reached out and grasped her hand, searing her palm with his touch; a small cry escaped the woman's lips. Willing her locked knees into motion, she moved towards the man, closing the space between them. They collided in a flurry of passion, arms linking about each other, lips frantically searching for fulfillment, taking what they could.

Erik swung her around and pressed her back to the piano. She flung out a hand to brace herself at the sudden movement and hit several ivory keys, causing a dissonant, shrill chord to echo through the room. Her other arm impetuously went under his robe and circled his bruised ribs tightly, unknowingly sending shots of pain through his body.

Erik inhaled sharply and winced at the soreness, forcing his mind to push away the marked discomfort about his torso. He instead focused on the delicate sculpture of her shoulders under her thin, white nightgown, and nimbly ran his exquisite fingers along her long, balletic arms, tracing a line from her wrists to the curve of her neck.

Christine pressed her palms to his tear-streaked face, and pulled his lips back to hers. Her angel moaned softly into her mouth, kissing her as if he had waited a lifetime to do so, and could spend a lifetime doing nothing else but basking in the warm, healing sweetness of her lips. His passionate reaction startled her, and every cell in her body was suddenly awash with frightening sensations, threatening to completely and utterly overwhelm her. An involuntary shudder ran the length of her spine.

Erik unexpectedly felt his angel stiffen in his arms, and he gently pulled away to study her face. Placing two elegant fingertips under her chin, he raised her terrified eyes to meet the stormy gold of his.

"Are you yet afraid of me, Christine?" he breathed, his normally controlled voice trembling with unease and trepidation at his beloved's hesitancy.

The woman lowered her lids to the floor, her lashes brushing her flushed cheeks gracefully. "I…I don't know what you want of me, Erik," she whispered almost timidly, not daring to meet his eyes for fear of the cynicism she might see reflected there. But no derisive criticism followed her quiet admission, nor impatience at her childlike words.

His fingers gently tugged the blue ribbon at the bottom of her plaited locks. The bit of satin fluttered to the ground, and he ran his fingers through her hair, loosing the dark curls from the haphazard braid. The masked man carefully lowered his mouth to the girl's refined neck, now covered in a light, salty sheen from her focused ballet exercises. He breathed in her scent, reveling in the sound of her sighs; the tenseness slowly left her spine, and she once again relaxed in his embrace.

"What do I want of you, mon ange?" he murmured into the brown tresses spilling about his face. "I should think that rather obvious."

The dancer's eyes flew open at the insinuation of his low, husky words.

It was not that Christine de Chagny was unfamiliar with the art of lovemaking—far from it. Her husband, ever an intuitive man, had taught her the bliss of the marriage bed by patiently offering the marked attention that she needed, until her proficiency rivaled his own. And as she learned to understand the intricacies of her lover's senses—what moved him, and what did not—their marriage, though often ritualistic, was never boring.

But Erik…

Another wave of need swept through her, and she dug her nails into the taught flesh of his back, her mind torn between yearning and fear.

Her teacher had been the first to awaken any sort of desire in her young body. He had stirred feelings so terrible and passionate that they had been buried deep when she thought him dead, only to rise up in her dreams like wicked wraiths. And now, once again, she stood before this man, enfolded in his arms, as he asked her to give way to those dark desires that had haunted the innermost recesses of her mind for so long.

Can I?...Do I dare?…

A great crash resounded from the hallway, followed by a woman's cry of distress. Christine quickly broke away from her angel's arms and flew to the door to see what had caused such a ruckus. Papi was stooped over, one hand clutching a wrap about her; the other, gingerly picking up shards of glass scattered along the oriental rug that ran the length of the floor. She briefly glanced up at her observers, then continued with her work, spouting apologies.

"Oh Madame, Monsieur, I beg your pardon. Sometimes I am all clumsiness when I clean. You see, Jean-Paul is still asleep, so I thought I could get in a bit of housework…" The Comtesse nodded in sympathy and knelt beside her, helping to pick up the broken pieces of the oil lamp, secretly thankful that her decision could be postponed.

Erik's face was a grim study as he watched the two at work. He had the distinct feeling that the servant's words did not, somehow, ring true. Christine, however, would not see it, so instead he bit his tongue and made his excuses, his irritation at the disturbance thinly veiled.

"Christine, I shall go make myself more presentable, and return in half an hour to continue our…discussion. Perhaps you would wish to do the same?" She nodded in assent, then offered him an apologetic smile, leading him to suspect that she may have understood the servant's motives, after all.

The man swiftly retreated down the hallway and up the stairs. Papi paused in her administrations to the rug as she listened for heavy footfalls on the floor above them, then sighed with relief as she heard a door slam shut. She removed her apron and hurriedly tossed the bits of glass into it. Jumping up from the floor, she then grabbed her startled mistress's hand and pulled her into the vacated ballroom, shutting the door securely behind them.

"I beg your forgiveness for the abruptness, my Lady, but we don't have much time. There is something you must see!"

"Papi, what—" the Comtesse began, but her words failed as the maid flipped away the light throw rug that had rested over her arm, revealing the object concealed underneath. Christine stared in utter disbelief at the thing, her face blanching in horror at the grisly discovery. She slowly backed away from the maid until her back hit the hard wood of the piano, then sank onto the bench as her knees failed her.

"Where did you find this, Papi?" the girl whispered hoarsely.

"His room." The maid's eyes met her mistress', and her heart ached for the pain she was causing the poor widow. "I'm sorry to show this to you, Madame. It is one thing to accept his help and protection, but another to…" she glanced down in embarrassment, not wanting to overstep the boundaries of her servanthood. "I just didn't want to see you throw everything away for this sort of man. And so soon after the Comte…"

Christine's stony gaze rose to meet her friend's, its effects chilling the maid to the core. "Thank you, Papi, but I believe I can make my own decisions." With a curt nod she dismissed the woman from the room, then lowered her face to the black and white keys, and wept.

Erik quickly turned from his ghastly reflection and deftly ran the blade over his chin, careful of the small crevices of his mangled flesh. Years of shaving without the aid of a mirror made him loath to use one now, even if it rested just over the porcelain sink in the small bathroom connected to his rooms. Splashing water over his bare face, he picked up the fresh, white towel from the hook and patted his chin and neck dry, then ran a palm over his smooth skin.

Again avoiding the mirror, he swiftly scooped up his white mask and replaced it, then moved into his bedroom to finish dressing. Some odd little detail stewed in the back of his mind and he paused, forcing it to come to the surface.

The fresh towels…they were not here before, which means that someone has been in my rooms!

The masked man growled in aggravation as he made a cursory sweep of his possessions, checking that everything was hidden away or in its place. Thankfully, he saw that his torn, bloody clothing from the previous night was still safely concealed under the bed, where he had kicked it last night in his haste make for the library.

Erik gingerly lowered himself to the edge of the bed, then leaned over and picked up the small gold ring from the nightstand. He pressed it into his palm and mechanically traced the small imprinted circle it left, his thoughts with the woman that had worn the ring, however briefly.

Just moments ago, he had come so close to having her completely. Would he have gone through with it, after seeing the fear and trepidation in her eyes? He shook his head, already knowing the answer. A not so distant conversation rose up in his memory; words the Persian had spoken the night he had stumbled into the Phantom's lair, finding him consumed with the ravages of fever…

"I won't drag Christine back into my dark world, Nadir. She feared it before, and she would again; it is best not to repeat the mistakes of the past."

The Persian's eyes bore down upon his friend's.

"Perhaps you should have faith that the girl can look beyond your past in Persia. Or has it not yet occurred to you that both you and Christine are the source of the other's redemption?"

Erik studied the bit of gold in silent deliberation.

My redemption…

Could he once again lay everything at her feet and trust her to accept his offering, as Nadir had suggested? The Persian had accused him of being afraid—yes, perhaps he was, but there was no turning back now. She already owned his soul. What else could possibly be left to give, but the rest of himself?

He glanced up at the clock on his mantle, and saw that he was supposed to return to Christine in two minutes. Clutching the ring in his fist, he stood firm in his resolution, and crossed the room in confidence, at last understanding what needed to be done.

No…this time, there will be no violent threats, no betrayals, no men in nooses. I shall do this correctly: openly and honestly ask for her love. Ask her to share my lonely life with me, for anything short of that won't do. And if she needs the reassurance of my wedding ring, I will gladly give it to her.

Erik strode into the ballroom, his silk nightclothes now exchanged for a snowy white shirt, brocaded vest, and crisp slacks. He spotted Christine seated at the piano, her back to the door, staring out the window into the garden in deep contemplation. She was still clad in her white dressing gown, the blue chenille wrap thrown over her shoulders; apparently, she had not left the room after their unfortunate interruption.

He walked over to the woman, one hand resting behind his back, clasping the precious gold band in his fist. The other reached out to his beloved, and he ran a thin, seductive finger up her spine, a gesture that recently he had grown rather fond of using. She shuddered under his touch, but this time, did not fly to his arms as he had expected. With sudden consternation, he stepped back to silently observe the girl; how she sighed tremulously, leaned her head upon her hand with weariness.

She has been crying, the man realized with a start, and promptly seated himself next to her at the piano bench. He cupped her face in his palm, his thumb brushing away the remnants of tears on her cheeks. Then leaned forward to gently press his forehead to hers, willing her troubles away. Her lips parted slightly, and she slowly exhaled in submission under his soft touch.

The Comtesse startled from her reverie and she ducked out of the comforting warmth of his hands, shaking away the sleepy contentment that had begun to cloud her brain.

"What happened last night, Erik?"

The man paled at the sudden words, and he tried to search her downcast eyes for answers to her unspoken questions. His shoulders sagged resignedly, knowing with certainty that now was the time to tell her of his past, and pray that she would understand. The proposal would have to wait for a bit.

"Look at me, Christine," he whispered, but her eyes remained down. Erik carefully gripped her face between elegant, firm fingers, and forced her to look upon him.

"In Paris," he whispered fervently, "when you said that you were in love with me, did you mean it?" He absently toyed with the gold ring, still tucked away in his left palm.

"Oh yes," his beloved angel murmured, her eyes sad. "I never ceased to. So much so, that it is easy to forget…that you are a…" The girl's gaze fell to the floor, and for the first time, Erik saw the length of rope coiled in her lap, resting there like a lazy serpent content with its previous night's hunting, marked with the dried blood of its prey.

The Punjab lasso, taken from my room…

The masked man suddenly stiffened, his fingers tightening about his angel's jaw. Christine's eyes widened in fear as his face darkened at her unspoken accusation, his fury rigidly controlled. Tears of dread began to flow freely down her cheeks, wetting the man's fingers.

"Forget what, my dear? That your lover is a murderer?" he said ominously, releasing his grip on her face and jumping up from the bench. Clasping his hands behind him, he paced back and forth in front of the ashen woman, his eyes watching every slight movement.

"I suppose," the man hissed, "it has been much easier for you to just make believe that I didn't kill Buquet, Piangi, Philippe—"

"Mon Dieu, no!" Christine cried abruptly, her mouth agape in shock. "Not Philippe—not Raoul's brother! His death was an accident, Erik—it had to be. Say no more, I beg of you!" The girl's face sank into the keys of the piano, her piteous sobbing echoing through the empty room.

Her angel, however, only scoffed at her sniveling. "Of course you don't want to hear the sordid details of my past, what I truly am! But perhaps it is time youknew the truth—that I have killed so many more. Seventy, perhaps a hundred—"

"—Erik, please, I don't want to know!" The girl reached out to her angel in desperation, before he could utter any other secrets. "Let us go on like we always have, as before; pretend these words were never spoken!"

The man unsympathetically shook her hand away and turned, the sting of her words wounding him to the core. His heart ached painfully with loss as his carefully crafted fairytale tumbled about him, and reality once again seeped into his veins. Faith? Faith that she would not be afraid, that she could save me? How could I have been so wrong, so foolish, yet again…

Erik swung about and grasped the girl's wrist, pulling her to her feet. The coiled lasso slid to the floor.

"What if I told you that the man escaped last night, that I didn't execute him in cold blood? Would you believe me?" His strong arm went around her waist and he roughly clasped her to him, his warm breath menacingly close to her face, his eyes slit like a snake's, ready to strike.

"Would you?" he hissed again, and Christine wordlessly nodded, turning her tear-streaked, puffy face from the fury just inches away.

"Lies! Do not play games with me, Madame," he whispered harshly. "You know very well what I am capable of—that is why you sought my protection to begin with." He pushed her away from him and she stumbled back, her wobbly legs failing. Through a haze of wretched weeping, she watched as her angel spun away from her, jammed some small thing into his pocket, and once more seated himself at the piano.

"As before; very well then, if that is what you wish. Your love is such a fickle, flimsy thing, anyway." the teacher spat hurtfully. "You wish to ignore all that has happened? So be it, child; we will continue on as before. Before your marriage, before Don Juan Triumphant, even before I pulled you through that damned mirror." Her teacher placed his bony hands upon the keys, his fingers trembling with controlled rage.

"Now, shall we reclaim your lost muse? Sing for me."

The wide-eyed, hysterical girl mutely shook her head.

"Sing!" he bellowed, sending his protégé stumbling back in fright.

"Erik, I cannot!" she cried, covering her face with her hands, her entire body shaking as giant sobs wracked through her slight frame.

The masked man sighed in acquiescence and stared down at the ivory keys for several minutes, listening to the shuddery gasps of the woman on the floor, just beyond the piano. His eyes narrowed in concentration on some unknown point on the keyboard, and ever so slowly, his breathing returned to normal. At last, he turned dark, tortured eyes to the broken woman at his feet, his words low and wretched.

"Damn you, Christine Daaé, for making me love you. I rue the day I gave you your voice."

Papi stared at the blank sheet of paper before her, grimly listening to the soft weeping coming from the Comtesse's bedroom. Her mistress had been in there most of the day, only emerging once to take Jean-Paul up to the nursery for several hours. The maid had found her there, huddled on the small wooden bed, faintly watching her little son play with the white, plush horse on the area rug.

A small feeling of guilt stirred up inside of the woman, but she quickly pushed it back. No, she had done the right thing by showing the bloody rope to the Comtesse, making her see the truth behind her daydreams of her "angel."

And that man, that horrid man, had locked himself away in the ballroom, pounding out his anger on the piano, sending the most frightful music echoing throughout the house. Even as dusk faded into night, the dissonant chords still seeped under the doors, through the walls, drenching the entire house with his bitter resentment.

The maid pounded her fist in frustration at the whole situation—not even a day in their new residence! She had tried to speak with her father about the happenings inside the house, but he had simply shaken his head, grumbled that it was not their place to interfere in the matter, and continued to clear away the bare, tangled branches in the wintry garden. So that left only one alternative.

Picking up the pen with renewed resolution, she began her letter:

M. Henri David, Avocat

2 Rue Pied nu, Place du Lépine, Paris

Dear Monsieur,

Forgive my writing to you, but I must beg for your assistance. If you loved Raoul de Chagny as I did, you will come to us in London as soon as possible, for his widow needs your help. Noël is not four weeks away, and could serve as an acceptable excuse for your visit. Pray that you will arrive by then. The address is as follows…

Note: Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad.

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