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, except Michel David, the Marquis de Bourges…

Side Notes:

Thanks Chat for all of your help with this chapter! I really appreciate the time you took to help make Frat a better story :)

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The voice of an angel…

That night, he had called to her from the mirror, and she had followed him down…down into the darkness. She was awed by the majesty of his presence…at last, his voice had pulled her to him, and she answered his siren's call with wonder. His heady music was like a sorcerer's song, weaving a spell over her mind and heightening every sense in her body. Resonant and clear, his voice pulled her deeper into the beautiful illusion he conjured…she could almost see the patterns of his creation, so seductive were the colors of the notes. He took her mind in his hands, and all she knew was the voice…no past, no present…only him.

His hands…

Although her back was turned to him, she could sense her angel of music move closer…his arms slowly come around her waist. Even through the soft leather of his gloves, his touch was like fire upon her wrists. Long, sensitive fingers caressed the soft skin between her knuckles, then leisurely skimmed up the length of her arms to clasp her shoulders. She could feel the length of his body standing just behind her, his chest barely touching her, the soft wool of his coat grazing her shoulder blades.

Lowering his head, he breathed his song into her ear, the toxic sweetness of it threatening to overcome every last thread of control she possessed. Her heart throbbed against the barriers of her breast, and she thought, perhaps, his did the same…

"Anywhere you go…"

Christine bolted up in the bed, wildly glancing about the stark room to gain her bearings. In the soft lamplight, her shadow loomed over the bare, white walls, stretching from corner to corner, floor to ceiling. Confusion flooded through her as she peered around for Erik. Taking in the quiet, empty room, her heart fell with a sickening thud.

He is not here, she mourned, a twinge of pain shooting through her insides. He left for Paris almost two weeks ago, right after the confrontation in the cellar. Now he is far away, and slides farther still with each mile this massive ship of metal travels.

Her current surroundings did not lend themselves to pleasant thoughts; the calm Mediterranean day had quickly given way to thunderstorms, bringing the cold rain and grey clouds with them. Though the Royal Navy's prize battlecruiser—the H.M.S. Inflexible—bore a strong name, it was not immune to choppy waves and strong winds. Christine had spent most of the day curled up in her small chamber, green with seasickness.

She had tried to sleep away the remainder of the day, only once stirring to play with her son and to take a small bowl of broth that Papi had forced into her hands. The broth, of course, had not stayed in her stomach for long. Promptly returning to bed, she had burrowed under the blankets, willing herself into unconsciousness. The overwhelming changes of the past weeks, however, came back to torment her with a vengeance…

Nadir released the Comtesse from his embrace, then caught her shoulders again as the strength she had mustered in front of the mirror drained from her body, leaving her limbs trembling with fatigue. Carefully, he held her elbow as she lowered herself onto the cellar steps, her breath coming in gasps and wheezes. She nodded her thanks to the Persian, then clasped her neck with a small white hand, massaging her throat as if she could make her airway open with the touch of her fingers. Lack of oxygen made her light-headed, and she leaned her cheek against the rough wood of the stair banister.

The strain of the confrontation eventually began to ease from her muscles, and she relaxed against the stone wall. As her breathing steadied, she opened her eyes and saw that Erik, at some point, had knelt next to her on the steps and was anxiously observing her.

He gently wrapped his fingers round her bruised, swollen neck, and ever-so-carefully traced the thick purple line with his thumbs. He absently nodded to the Persian, and the man quickly pulled M. David from his chair.

"I shall see that he bathes and eats, then bring him back to the cellar until we decide what to do with him." Nadir dragged the stumbling lawyer up the stairs, leaving Erik and his protégé alone.

The masked man leaned forward and tucked a wayward curl behind the woman's ear, his fingertips lightly brushing her cheek. "Christine, what you did for M. David—it was merciful, to be sure," he murmured, his voice breaking with emotion. "The idea, however, is madness. You cannot take this wretched boy to Jerusalem with you. What if he betrays you again?"

"Then come with me, Erik."

He shook his head and glanced away, ignoring her plea. "That would not be wise, Christine. Nadir shall take excellent care of you. However, to ask him to tote this fool of an avocat around the Middle-east is too much. The man will have to be kept at arm's length at all times, and that sort of situation is not conducive to life in Jerusalem. You will have a hard enough time adjusting to the changes without the extra burden of keeping this man under lock and key. If you would only allow me to make a swift end of it here, in London…"

The woman caught his face in her palm, pushing his gaze back to hers. She studied the molten gold and noticed, for the first time, they were flecked with a darker shade of amber.

"Come with me, Erik," she whispered again, her voice low and hoarse. "Not because you fear for my safety with Henri. Come with me…not out of obligation, but because you loathe to leave my side. Come with me… not just to Jerusalem, but anywhere that life takes us." Christine held out a hand to him, willing him to take it. "Are you so jaded, my angel, that you cannot see? All you have desired is within reach…"

His eyes burned now, her words undeniably tempting him to grasp what he had only dreamed of. Within the spheres of color, passion raged mightily against logic; his desire to do as she asked warred with all the cruel realities the world had taught him.

As she watched, sense slowly began to stifle the brightness of his longing. To her dismay, he bowed his head in defeat.

"What I desire, my angel, is for you to let go of this ridiculous notion that you can save me." The man exhaled slowly, his fingertips again grazing the wound at her neck. He stared at it, his eyes darkening to a rich hue of amber that drowned the flecks gracing them. "I told you four years ago, when I sent you away with the boy, that I was beyond redemption. Nothing has changed, Christine. I cannot wipe away the atrocities I have committed…but I can prevent my blackness from further polluting your spirit. If you will not think of yourself, consider Jean-Paul. What kind of life would he have, with a mother who exhausts herself in tears, and a father with a face—"

"No," she whispered forcefully, shaking her head at his words. "I refuse to accept excuses, Erik. The truth is, you are afraid. Afraid that all of the things you have desired will actually come to pass. That you would, for the first time, be forgiven instead of condemned. Then the beliefs you have held about yourself would no longer be true—"

A fit of coughing seized the woman, and she pressed a hand to the cold wall to steady herself, struggling to finish. "—and you…would not know…who you were—"

Erik calmly waited for the fit to pass. He stood slowly, wearily, as every single one of his years lay heavily upon his shoulders. Grasping the woman's elbows, he helped her to her feet.

"Christine," he gently murmured, voice full of concern. "All I desire is for you to utter nothing else, at least for another two weeks. Or have you already forgotten the doctor's prognosis?" He faintly smiled upon her, but the expression seemed forced, mismatched to the rest of his demeanor. Supporting her small frame against him, he firmly led her up the stairs and through the empty hallways, depositing her in her bedroom. Saying nothing more, he quietly slipped away, closing the door behind him…

Christine glanced at the clock on her nightstand—a quarter to eight. It was almost time to meet with Henri. The avocat was to keep his end of the bargain tonight, now that they were halfway to Jerusalem and he was in no danger of being tossed overboard by a raging masked man. A part of her had begun to wish that she had let Erik deal with the sniveling man in London.

Sighing, she slipped from her bed and turned to the white basin and pitcher on the simple table in the corner. She poured water and splashed some on her face, letting the droplets run down her cheeks and neck. She shuddered as they escaped under her bodice and cooled her feverish, clammy skin. Patting her face dry, she turned to the mirror to try and make herself presentable.

The face that stared back was not as horrific as it had been two weeks ago. The redness of her eyes had lightened to trace amount of pink, and clear blue once again shone through. Most of the bruising about her cheeks and jaw-line had faded to a grayish-green; a color which, today, was emphasized by the seasick pallor of her skin. Her bruised neck was still startling to look at, though the thick black line was now blue. Thankfully, the swelling had all but ceased after the first week, allowing her to breathe with ease.

Even her voice had begun to improve, though there was a persistent raspy quality that had not left. Once again, the thought crossed her mind that the hoarseness might be a permanent fixture. She shook the fear away. It is too soon to tell. Not enough time has passed to know for sure…

The woman quickly grabbed the soft wool scarf she had worn every day since their departure and wrapped it around her throat. It is better if Jean-Paul does not see, she insisted.And yet, she could not let go of the feeling that she was once again hiding, that the strength she had mustered in the cellar was but a fleeting occurrence in a long history of weakness…

He was gone the next morning. Christine, in truth, was not surprised by his swift departure. Erik was a man who would deliberate for days, even months at a time over a decision, carefully weighing every aspect open to him. Once the choice was made, however, he carried it out with shocking speed, never once looking back to reflect upon the consequences.

And so she had spent the remaining two days preparing for their departure. Once again, she lovingly packed away the few treasures she had carried with her to London—the porcelain box, the brooch from Raoul, her mother's handkerchief and her father's violin. Her hand brushed over the rose her teacher had given her when she first came to the London town home. She had tried to dry the bloom once the color began to darken and wilt, but had made a mess of it. The delicate petals had crumbled under her ministrations, leaving a flaky pile upon her dresser. Carefully brushing the pieces into the bin, the woman struggled to turn her thoughts away from the masked man.

It was not an easy task.

She tried not to think of him as she wandered from room to room, helping Papi and Norry to put out the lights before their departure for the docks. The Rubaiyat was still on the small table in the library; she heard the fluent Persian language effortlessly tripping from his tongue, beautiful and exotic.

The piano in the ballroom, where he had played and she had danced… for one brief moment, they had let down their guard, giving in to the passion that sang in their blood.

When Hale came to say his goodbyes before Murray spirited them away to the docks, she had to bite down upon her lip to keep from asking if Erik had bid the Sûreté agent goodbye before his departure, and if Hale knew whether he had reached Calais safely.

And as she and her family donned the costume of the costermonger and slipped onto the fishing boat bound for Portsmouth, the Comtesse couldn't help but remember the last time she had disguised herself as a boy. She had just parted from her angel then, as well, stealthily slipping out of the Opéra Populaire and into the mayhem of Paris.

Perhaps he is again under the opera house, she mused, sitting at his organ, writing his music…

Murray had guided them through Portsmouth to the Royal Navy dockyard, dressed head to toe in his officer's uniform. The plan was to sail to Palestine aboard the H.M.S. Inflexible, the innovative ship that kept the peace upon the Mediterranean waters and Egyptian ports. The warship was bound for Alexandria, but would detour to the coastal town of Jaffa, allowing the extra passengers to depart via a skiff. From there, they would travel through the hills by horse and carriage and slip into the city under the cover of night.

The mild days spent aboard the British cruiser were a welcome relief to the frigid January weather of London. While the air was still cool, the high sun and sea breezes only necessitated a light wrap and scarf. In fact, the thunderstorms that had rolled through in the morning and afternoon hours had been the only rough weather they had encountered since leaving England.

Almost daily, Christine walked the decks of the metal giant with her little son, marveling at the odd combination of smokestacks and billowing sails. Murray had joined Jean-Paul and her on several such strolls, when his duties allowed him time away. Like a child anxious to please, he had pointed out the different features of his ship, his brogue becoming more pronounced as his excitement grew.

"She's the first ship to use an underwater armor deck in place of vertical armor along the waterline. Tha' armor is 60 centimeters thick o'er there in the central box citadel—the thickest ever used in a British warship. Inflexible's also the first boat to be fitted wi' electric light, though Captain Jackie Fisher prefers to go withoot it at night, just to keep the crew oon their toes. An' ded I mention tha' the gal was rated the best ship o' the fleet because the crew has perfected the sail handling? Although, when we return to port later this year, the sails'll be replaced by fightin' tops…"

Christine nodded along, trying to follow his English but missing half of the words. She absently ran her hand along the deck railing, every now and again pausing to feel the salty sea breeze upon her face or lift her child when he grew weary. Murray would slow his stride to stare up at the turrets with their 80-ton guns, becoming completely engrossed in the glory of the ship and forgetting that anyone else was present.

Once in awhile, land would come into view on the horizon and the Scotsman told her which foreign country she had spotted, based upon the hour and number of days they had been at sea.

"Tha' island there is Malta, Mme. de Chagny. Means tha' we're just off the coast of Sicily. If we had a spot o' time, we would stop at the port in Valletta and let ye get your land legs back a bit."

While the sailor chattered on about the different Mediterranean ports—Tunis, Athens, Tripoli, Monaco—the Comtesse struggled to push back her melancholy. The only meaning she garnered from these strange places was that France was fading into the distance. She knew, however, she should be grateful to the man for pulling her out of her suite and putting forth the effort to make her at ease upon the vessel. So the woman would silently walk on, smiling up at the officer when it was called for, though the expression never quite reached her eyes…

The weight of the mattress shifted, and Christine spun around to find that her little son had wandered from his adjoining room and plopped down on one of her pillows. Slowly exhaling, the mother forced back her grief and pulled Jean-Paul close, cradling the toddler in her arms.

The child burrowed his face into her shoulder and pressed a tiny hand against her cheek, his fingers sticky with some sugary substance. Laughing, she pulled his hand away and kissed it, tasting faint traces of honey upon his skin.

"Jean-Paul, mon petit, have you found somebody with sweets aboard the ship?"

The boy wagged his head up and down. "Jackie's Maman!" her little son cried, meaning Mrs. Fisher—the Captain's wife. He swung his other hand around to show his mother a half-eaten sticky bun.

Christine nodded earnestly, determined not to think about how long he had actually been in possession of the treat.

Jean-Paul forced the bun upon the woman's mouth and she pretended to take a bite. She tickled his ribs, and he began to giggle wildly; a wide, toothy grin spread across his face as he tried to push her hands away.

The mother's breath caught in her throat, seeing something in her child that she had never observed before. Why, Jean-Paul has Raoul's smile…oh, his mouth is his own, but he smiles like his father…

With an aching wistfulness, she realized that her son was growing too quickly for her liking. The little tunics and playsuits that had been rather big for him in Paris were now creeping up his baby arms and legs, becoming snug around his middle. Just the other morning, as they watched dolphins swim in the wake of the ship, he had squealed with delight and proclaimed, "Look at the fish!" Jean-Paul had never uttered a complete sentence before, and the words had caught her off-guard.

The mother smiled upon her son, removed the sticky bun from his fingers, and pushed back the black, wispy curls from his forehead. "Your Papa would be thrilled to know how much you love the sea, my little man," she whispered, planting a kiss on his cheek. The child squirmed in her arms and looked up into her face, his expression suddenly clouding. Christine watched in surprise as his cheerful demeanor disappeared and his lower lip began to tremble, signaling the rapidly approaching onslaught of tears. She pulled him close again, rocking the child in her arms.

"Whatever is the matter, mon petit?"

"Want Papa," he scowled, put a fist to his eyes, and wiped away the tears that had begun to fall.

The Comtesse studied her child's face in confusion. It had been many months since Jean-Paul had ceased to call out for his Papa, and at last she had begun to believe he understood that Raoul had "gone away." She had often made mention of "Papa" to her son, and he had never once reacted with tears. Tilting the boy's face up, she gently gazed upon him.

"Jean-Paul, Papa is gone, remember?"

The two-year-old blankly stared at her as if she were insane. Slowly, he shook his head and glared at his mother. "Want Papa," he repeated more firmly this time, touching his sticky fingers to his face.

Christine blinked several times in bewilderment, her mouth gaping. Surely he can't mean?…

"What is this, Jean-Paul?" she whispered, touching her fingers to her face as her son had done.

The boy frowned in concentration, struggling to remember the correct words to describe what he wanted. At last, his eyes flew wide and he rocked forward on his knees to pat his Maman's cheek.

"The cover!" he proclaimed with pride, and threw himself back into his mother's lap.

Christine's arms unconsciously came around the boy as she fought to grasp hold of what the child had just imparted to her.

Is it possible that he…that my son believes Erik is his Papa?

Her thoughts rapidly raced over all that had happened since Raoul's death. Jean-Paul had been just three months shy of his second birthday when his father had died. The boy, however, had always been observant—his wide blue eyes took in everything. He was a bright child, and he knew what a "Papa" was…

A "Papa," to her little boy, was a man that took a special interest in him. Praised him when he did something good and corrected when he was naughty. He was a man that taught him new things, such as notes on the piano or stories of ancient mammoths. And above all else, he was a man that the boy's Maman would love and depend upon…

Christine's face went ashen. "Jean-Paul, could you possibly—do you mean Erik?' she whispered, glancing down at the top of his curly head, seeking to confirm what she already knew to be true.

The boy nodded vigorously against her shoulder, pleased that his mother at last understood what he had told her. For in the child's eyes, who else could Papa possibly be, but the masked man?

"Mon Dieu…God in heaven!" Swiftly depositing her son on one of the pillows, the woman leapt from the bed and scanned the room as if searching for an answer to her dilemma. Putting a hand to her forehead, she began to pace back and forth, panicking at the revelation. She truly had no clue which steps to take; in fact, she was not even sure how she should feel at such a moment. Anxious over Jean-Paul's mistake? Angry? Elated?

Christine stopped pacing and sucked in her bottom lip, fighting to put a coherent thought together. Taking several deep breaths, she focused on the immediate.

First step…Erik may or may not know about this. It seems more likely that he doesn't, for he would have made mention of it if he had. Then again, he might not have…

The woman strode over to the pitcher at the table, picked up the small glass, and poured water into it. Downing the cool liquid in several gulps, she filled it again, then resumed her pacing.

Perhaps if I just explained to Jean-Paul that Erik is not his Papa…She turned to speak to her child, but when she saw his shining blue eyes watching her with innocent joy, the words died upon her lips. What if someday, just maybe, Erik truly does become his father…do I now want to tell my son he isn't, and risk confusing him in the future? As things currently stood between them, however, the possibility of such an event occurring seemed dim.

Christine longed for her angel's guidance. He would know what to do, how best to handle her little son without shattering his trusting mind. If only she knew how to reach him in Paris…

Nadir! He has to know how to contact Erik; they have corresponded with each other all along, have they not? She shrugged into her dark wool coat, then fetched Jean-Paul's from his room and slid his arms into the small sleeves. Scooping up the boy, she flew to the door and swung it open.

Barreling into the hallway, she ran headlong into the very man that she was seeking. The Persian staggered back in surprise as the Comtesse nearly knocked him over. Grasping her shoulders to prevent her and her child from stumbling, he waited until she was steady before dropping his hands.

"A thousand apologies, Mme. de Chagny," he declared, his voice filled with sincere regret. "I was just coming to fetch you to my chambers for the meeting. The others are already there, but Mlle. Nitot suggested that I collect you, since you have been ill today…" His words trailed away as he took in the woman's ashen face and bewildered eyes.

"What has happened, Madame?"

Christine grasped the man's sleeve with the hand that wasn't supporting Jean-Paul, her eyes pleading with his. "M. Khan, I need you to pass something along to Erik for me. Please, it is extremely important!"

The Persian's started at the woman's fervor, unconsciously taking several steps back. She followed him, still clutching at his shirt. He put a hand to the back of his neck and studied her at length. Sighing, he held out his hand in a gesture of defeat.

"Very well, I shall oblige—but after our conversation with M. David. However, I must admit that this entire situation is beginning to wear upon my patience. Not that it is your fault, Madame," he grumbled, rushing on before the Comtesse could protest. "My friend, your 'angel', has a tendency to push my limits of tolerance." He offered his elbow to Christine. Reluctantly biting back her desire to ask more of his relationship with the masked man, she took his arm.

The overwhelming smell of Arab coffee filled the nostrils of those gathered in Nadir Khan's small room. Though the night was blustery and cold, his chambers were unusually warm, due to the bodies crowded together.

M. David was seated in a chair pushed back against the opposite wall, with the Persian hovering over him. Norry and Papi both sat on the edge of the daroga's bed. Murray stood at the door and warily eyed the avocat, his arms folded across is chest. Christine had been given the only other chair in the room, as she held her son upon her lap.

"Mme. de Chagny, for the chill." The Persian offered her a steaming cup of the liquid, warmly smiling down upon her. Not wishing to appear rude, she accepted the small cup from the man and slowly put the strong liquid to her lips. The bitter flavor was overpowering; she swiftly drained the hot coffee in several gulps, letting the last bit drain down her throat. Before she could close her lips, however, and unexpected mass of sludge poured into her mouth and she began to gag on the awful stuff. Her eyes watering, she covered her lips and forced the vile coffee residue down her throat.

A soft chuckle sounded. Christine's eyes flew up to find Nadir Khan smiling at her, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Shaking his head, he wiped the levity from his face and gestured for M. David to begin.

Henri glanced at the faces trained upon him, his gaze at last coming to rest upon the Comtesse's. He sighed resignedly, his fatigued eyes meeting hers.

"Christine, must Jean-Paul be present for this?"

The woman smirked. "What is the matter, Henri? Are you afraid of a two-year-old's scrutiny?" Her expression grew serious again. "He is here because I want you to face Raoul de Chagny's child while you speak. As of late, you seem to need reminding of your loyalties."

Drops of perspiration beaded up on the lawyer's forehead, and he patted it with a handkerchief. Tucking the bit of cloth away, he took a shaky breath and began.

"What I know of Fraternité has been told to me by my eldest brother, Michel David—the Marquis de Bourges." Henri glanced at his audience's faces to gauge their reaction to the noble title. When no one displayed signs of veneration, he continued on in disappointment.

"I was unaware that it even existed until early November, after I was paid a visit by M. Khan and that masked friend of his. Not long after our…discussion, Monsieur, Michel summoned me to his Paris residence. The conversation began casually enough; he inquired after my health, my circle of friends, current cases, and so on. And then he became serious, guarded. If you have met my brother," he nodded towards Christine, "you would know that he is always 'serious' and 'guarded'. So it was not his demeanor that surprised me, but his sudden line of questioning."

" 'What exactly is your involvement with Raoul de Chagny's widow?' he asked. I replied that we remained good friends even after her husband's death, and I was serving as her personal estate avocat. He continued to prod, and I revealed that she was in a bit of trouble, an issue I was assisting her in. Michel frowned and stared me down—you know how cold his gaze can be, Christine—but I did not waver. 'Is that all, Henri? No romantic entanglements?'"

At this point, M. David's face began to redden profusely, and his eyes flicked up to study the Comtesse.

"I admitted to him that I was in love with Mme. de Chagny, and planned to marry her once her period of mourning was finished; any earlier would be considered improper. I still love her, even now…"

Christine looked awkwardly to the floor, away from the man's earnest gaze. Her mouth and eyes were heavy with mortification—she had not known until that moment how Henri had felt about her. If you could truly call what he feels…love, she pondered.

The lawyer stared at the embarrassed woman at length, then hung his head in resignation. With a sigh he began to speak again, his voice no longer tinged with confidence.

"My brother nodded along as I told him of my plans, listening carefully. He offered me the usual cigar and brandy, sat across from me with a relaxed demeanor, and nonchalantly mentioned that he could assist me in my endeavors on behalf of the Comtesse. At first I was taken aback when he told me of a secret brotherhood our family had belonged to for almost eighty years. So secret, in fact, that only the eldest son of each generation was allowed to know of it. Of course, I then inquired as to why he was telling me, the youngest of the seven David brothers, about the brotherhood. This is the story that he imparted to me:

'Fraternité is a society of men, numbering in fifty or so, that rose up from the ashes of the disbanded Jacobin Club after the French Revolution.' " The avocat glanced to M. Khan in apology, and assumed his best lawyer's voice. "For those who do not know of the Jacobin Club, their ideals of a France free from the confines of the societal hierarchy were the driving force behind the Revolution. The Jacobins were made up of professionals, bourgeoisie, and several of the aristocracy, all united by one purpose: to limit the power of the monarchy and let the people decide France's destiny. Throughout the club's ranks, the cries of liberté, egalité, and fraternité could be heard—they published it in their pamphlets, newspapers, engraved it in their walls…"

The lawyer paused to draw breath, and Nadir took the opportunity to interrupt the avocat's enthusiastic tale.

"M. David—while this is a refreshing reminder of the past, I can assure you that all present know of the Jacobin Club, their leaders' rise to power, the conspiracies, and their Reign of Terror. We need not delve into the gruesome details of Madame Guillotine and her blood bath."

The avocat nodded and nervously patted his forehead again. "Forgive me, M. Khan, I was not aware…" He cleared his throat and resumed his story. "Robespierre and other prominent Jacobin leaders were executed, the club dispersed, and its members went into hiding. After the massacre of the aristocracy and many political opponents, to be a Jacobin in post-revolutionary France was not the popular way of life. All were persecuted, some were killed. On several different occasions, the group tried to resurrect itself, only to be stifled by the new government. It was not until Napoleon's reign that the Society began to secretly flourish again, under the careful administrations of its more moderate members that had left before the Reign of Terror—namely Marcel David, the Marquis de Bourges; another was Georges Léon, the Comte de Chagny."

A gasp sounded across the room and all eyes flew to the corner. Papi covered her mouth in astonishment, her cheeks flushing at the abrupt attention. "I apologize for the interruption, M. David. I was surprised to learn that Georges de Chagny was a Jacobin; that is all."

"As was I, Mlle. Nitot. My brother, however, explained that Georges and Marcel kept low profiles during the Revolution, thus losing nothing when the Jacobins failed. And if the Committee of Public Safety had maintained power, then they would have been all the stronger for supporting the cause in the first place."

"A game of roulette," the maid whispered. Suddenly, the legend of the Comte did not glisten as it once had. In fact, she now thought his actions rather cowardice…

"Chagny, David, and other prominent Jacobins had a vision of a new Society; one that operated on the principles of the club before it had spiraled into the madness of revolution. Chagny felt that the only way for Fraternité to be successful was to set strict guidelines for membership and adhere to them religiously. These are the rules, as Michel explained to me:

"First, to be a part of Fraternité, one must be a direct descendent of a Jacobin. This is why most families pass the membership from father to eldest son—to keep the club as 'pure' as possible. The eldest son is raised to appreciate the importance of the organization and to know that they have a duty to the brotherhood, above all other duties.

"Second, each member must be influential in their particular sphere of society. Fraternité is not simply a club for wealthy boys of the aristocracy. Like the original Jacobin Club, it is a mix of people from all walks of life: politicians, businessmen, artists, aristocrats, writers. Many have nothing in common, except for one thing – a desire to use their power for the betterment of France.

"That leads to the last rule—each member should use their influence to advance the brotherhood's cause. They must be willing to sacrifice family, friends, even their life for the common good. If any brother refuses to adhere to the last guideline, he will be expelled. And in extreme cases, if it is necessary…killed."

M. David's last word hung in the air, the weight of it heavy upon the minds of all who heard his tale. Everyone knew what the next, logical query was, yet nobody could muster the courage to ask, for fear of the answer. At last, Christine de Chagny, pale and ill, gave voice to the unspoken words. Her voice was soft and hoarse.

"Henri," she whispered, "was my husband a part of Fraternité? If so, why did they turn against him? He loved France as much as anyone…"

The lawyer nodded, his eyes reflecting the sadness of the Comtesse's. "Apparently after Philippe drowned, Raoul inherited membership to the club as part of the duties that came with the title of 'Comte.' Though he was the younger son, most of the brothers insisted that a Chagny be a part of Fraternité, since one of the clubs founding fathers was of that particular family. It is tragic, really, that Georges de Chagny's insistence upon strict guidelines ultimately led to his own progeny's death…"

Christine's eyes slit in fury at the lawyer's flippancy. "Not death, Henri—murder! Your beloved, enlightened Fraternité murdered a good man! They tried to kill me and—" she silently pointed to the sleeping Jean-Paul on her lap. "Now, I want you to tell me once and for all—why?"

"I do not know, Christine—"

All of a sudden, the avocat bolted up in his chair and wildly glanced about the room, his eyes wide with fright. Taking in the startled faces of his companions, realization flooded into him and he struggled to compose his features. He glared up at the silent daroga.

"I can assure you, M. Khan, that I am not lying. I was not even aware that Mas Quennell was responsible for Raoul's death until…until that night in London." His pleading eyes turned to Christine. "All my brother imparted was that after Raoul died, the oath of Fraternité disappeared. I cannot even tell you what that is, except an extremely important document that has been entrusted to the Chagny family since the beginnings of the club. The leaders are certain that he gave it to you, Christine, and swore you to secrecy. I know nothing more—"

M. David started again, his eyes flying about the room in accusation. "Who said that?"

Norry shook his head in wonder at the quaking lawyer's antics. "That one is comin' unhinged," he murmured incredulously.

His daughter nodded in agreement. "He is under a great deal of stress, Papa."

Only the Persian seemed unsurprised by the blubbering man's odd behavior. Christine leveled suspicious eyes upon Nadir and studied his composed features. After several minutes, he noticed her scrutiny and let a blank expression fall across his face.

At last, after several shuddery breaths, the avocat composed himself enough to continue. "Very well! Fraternité promised to make me a part of their brotherhood if I recovered the oath. Mas was to accompany me to London to ensure that I found it. I did not know what he was planning to do, Christine, I swear. I would never intentionally endanger you like that—I wanted to marry you, for Godsake! If I became a part of Fraternité, I would have connections beyond belief…wealth…power and influence… think of the life I could give you…" He stared at the woman again, once more testing the waters. "I still wish to marry you…"

The Comtesse stood abruptly, clutching her sleeping child. Her voice trembled with controlled anger. "You do not want me, Henri—you hardly know me. What you want is an ornament to display in your dainty social circles. I am sorry, but no." She made a move towards the door. Before she could sweep from the room, however, the daroga's arm came out and gently grasped her elbow.

"Mme. de Chagny, there is still one more question we must ask of M. David before you leave for the evening. I know that you are tired and ill, but you may wish to stay."

Christine paused in her retreat, then wearily turned from the door and leaned against the wall. "Very well. Please continue, Monsieur." The Persian solemnly nodded.

"What can you tell us of Mas Quennell?"

The lawyer, this time, was more willing to oblige. "Philippe de Chagny brought Mas from Russia when Raoul and I were just children—do you remember, Papi? We were in awe of the thin, mysterious valet from the land of ice. In reflection, however, I rather think that he was never a valet at all, but more of a…"

"Brother?" finished Christine, bitterly.

The lawyer nodded, oblivious to her sarcasm. "Michel was the one who suggested I hire him as my valet after Raoul passed away. I thought it was a splendid idea at the time, but now I am inclined to believe the club wanted him in my household so they could keep an eye on the Chagny estate business.

"After becoming privy to the secrets of Fraternité, I have since learned that M. Quennell is highly regarded within the organization. You have seen the ring he wears? Only a handful of the members own them…not even the Chagnys possessed one. From what I understand, it was Mas that first brought the Narodnaya Volya to the attention of the club…"

He paused for a moment in deliberation. To Christine, it seemed as though he was weighing some important decision; she could all but see the battle raging within his normally dim eyes. Taking a cautious step forward, the woman lightly placed a hand on her former friend's shoulder in half-hearted encouragement.

"I can understand why you did what you did, Henri, though I daresay it was the most foolish act of self-advancement I have seen from you yet." She loosed a feeble smile and sighed, turning to leave the room.

The lawyer's hand swiftly fell across hers and he grasped it tightly.

"There is one more thing, Christine," he whispered. "Before I came to London, I attended one of Fraternité's meetings. I cannot tell you how to locate them, for they blindfolded me when I entered the carriage. All of the members wore black cloaks and hoods to protect their identities from me…all except Mas Quennell. I was shocked to find him there; at that time, I still thought him only my valet. His eyes followed my every movement as if mocking me, challenging me. He wanted me to understand how powerful he truly was, and that a snap of his fingers could send me to the bottom of the Seine.

"After the meeting, life returned to normal and the feeling passed. I became convinced it had been my overly-excited paranoia influencing me. But the night he…hurt you, I realized my first impression had been correct. This man is cruel and bitter, Christine—full of hatred. And he is powerful. Be careful when crossing him…although, I do not need to tell you that." The avocat at last fell silent, his hand falling away from hers.

The Comtesse studied the man a moment longer, then turned away in pity. The poor, vain boy, she mulled. This men's club, this brotherhood, never intended to allow Henri into their numbers at all! He is a pawn in their games, whatever they are. What is more, he still does not realize his own brother has played him for a fool.

She was so immersed in her thoughts that she almost missed it—the whispered words had nearly been lost as M. David resumed his incoherent babbling. In fact, she would not have heard it at all if she had been sitting across the room in her chair, instead of standing next to the trembling Henri.

"Oh please," the avocat cried, "there is nothing more to tell! I beg of you, do not throw me overboard!"

The Persian shook the boy firmly, struggling to quiet him. "Maalesh! No one shall touch you, Monsieur! Now cease this drivel at once—you are frightening the women."

Christine buried her face in Jean-Paul's curly hair to smother the smile that played upon her lips. Her suspicions had been confirmed—M. David was not, in fact, losing his mind as Norry and Papi assumed. She knew better, for she had heard the voice as well.

When the panicked lawyer had heard the whispered "Shall we feed him to the sea, daroga?" he indeed had just cause to be frightened.

Her angel was often cruel in rather clever ways.

Hoisting her slipping child upon her hip, the woman wandered onto the deck, the cold night air a welcome relief to the stifling warmth of the crowded room. So many revelations were whirling about in her head…Jean-Paul's innocent belief that Erik was his father…Henri's unconventional proposal…the tale of the Jacobins…the secrets Raoul had kept from her.

All of this knowledge simply raises more questions. There is so much yet to discover…

Sighing, the Comtesse slowly made her way back to her room. Oddly enough, however, all worries and fears were eclipsed by the one bit of knowledge pulsing through her very core…

No matter what I discover about Raoul, wherever the waves of chaos carry me, I shall never be alone.

Breathing in the fresh sea air, she paused at her door, absorbing the peaceful calm after the storm.

"Goodnight, Erik," she whispered.

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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