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 the characters and own none of them, except that sassy new punjab with the rockin' good looks!

Side Notes:

Thank you to Adison for your wonderful beta skills! You are a fabulous editor, my dear. Chat, you've used up your vacation time :) Barefoot, don't work too hard – you are in mah heart.

Phantomy cookies, my mother sends you her love :)

Thanks to all of the awesome Frat!Pack-ers for your squees, reviews, and encouragement. This was a tough chapter to write for some reason, but I got through it on time because of your motivating words!

Pupil and Teacher

"I believe we have a thief in our convent, Madame Garnier."

Christine nearly dropped the comb that she was tugging through Jean-Paul's snarled black curls. "Why do you say that, Sister? Has anything gone missing?" she questioned, raising her voice over the child's tearful protests.

Sister Helena gave the woman a knowing smile, as children's tears were nothing new to her.

"Nothing of consequence has been taken; several brass candelabras from a closet next to the sanctuary, and a handful of candles. However, I advise you to keep your door locked at night." The old nun lifted her afternoon cup of tea to her lips and looked thoughtfully across the rooftops of the old city. "I almost think that we have somebody living below the convent, in the ruins. We shall have to chain the chapel door that leads to them, so they will not be able slip into the building again."

"I am sorry, Sister—I know you have explained this already, but could you tell me a bit more about the Roman ruins underneath the convent?" Christine asked shakily.

The sister's face brightened. "Of course, Madame Garnier. So many fascinating things lie under this very building, as well as under the orphanage."

Including a thieving masked man, I am guessing, the young woman silently mused, reproaching herself for not realizing it sooner. Almost everyday, she had madly searched the streets of Jerusalem, only to find that the most likely place for Erik to be residing was under the convent itself. Only yesterday morning, Sister Helena had imparted that underneath most of the old city ran a network of Roman streets, pillars, arches; some of it had already been excavated, including the portions under the Ecce Homo pilgrim house.

The Phantom of the Convent…She quietly snickered, knowing how Erik would rage if she dared to suggest such a thing. A vision of frightened nuns scurrying down a hallway followed by maniacal laughter sneaked its way into her mind. The image was irrepressible—a lighthearted giggle flew from her mouth before she had the chance to stifle it.

Sister Helena gave her a confused look, and went on. "I have only been below the building once, when we tapped into the water source underneath the convent. We had to cut through the old plaza's thick paving stones that had been used to vault over the cistern. You see, the water source used to be part of a canal that led to the Jewish temple. When the Romans conquered Jerusalem, they destroyed the canal and built a moat around the Fortress Antonia. Later, Hadrian covered the moat to craft the cistern when he was creating his new glorious city—Aelia Capitolina. The old city plaza, the Lithostratos, is what lies under the convent; perhaps, before your stay in the Ecce Homo is over, one of the sisters can take you below to see it." The nun smiled at the young mother. "The ruins are well worth the visit."

Christine nodded absently, her eyes anxiously searching the markets below for Nadir. Dark clouds had been gathering upon the horizon for a good half hour now, crowding out the late afternoon sun. The storm would be a welcome relief to the apparently uncommon, sweltering days that had plagued Jerusalem the past two weeks. The sun had pounded upon the dry land since that first warm night she and Erik had agreed upon their game, and had not relented since.

Perhaps we shall see rain this evening, Christine reflected, wishing for the cool reprieve.

She hoped that Nadir would return before the storm broke. Yesterday evening at dinner, he had quietly told her that the item she had requested was finished, and would she like him to fetch it for her the next day? Her insides flipping anxiously, she had nodded her assent. And then he had carefully dropped a note in her hand, murmuring something about its having been placed in his care earlier that morning, during the adhan.

The Comtesse had quickly excused herself from the table, slipping away from the curious eyes of Papi and Henri. Sliding her finger under the wax seal, she consumed the splotchy red words, her eyes gleaming with amusement.

My Dear Madame,

So, you have chosen to remain silent in regard to our agreed-upon game? I must admit that I am rather disappointed in your course of action (or lack thereof), and can only surmise that you intend to wait until my vigilance has weakened. However, I fear that this shall never be the case, my dear lady. My fortitude is tremendous in this respect, as I am more than willing to hold my guard for years, if necessary. Therefore, if you intend to face me in this match, you must devise a new plan.

In regard to your small handbag, which was stolen from your person in the market today. I was greatly troubled by this occurrence; not so much by the thievery itself, but by the purchase you were making at the time. Really Christine, that red trinket did not flatter your wrist at all. You would have done better to choose the blue bracelets. Blue suits you better than red.

If you look to the set of drawers in your room, Madame, you shall find your handbag. Please put your money to better use in the future, and accept my gesture of goodwill.

I remain your Teacher in all aspects,

E

Christine had been mildly irritated by the man's "gesture of goodwill". She had been forced to ask Nadir to purchase the items she couldn't buy, because of the misplacement of her coins. The Persian's eyes had glistened with obvious curiosity when she casually placed in his hands the red bracelet, the gold coins smadeh that Palestinian women wore for special occasions, a thin chain, and a very plain, unadorned gold ring…

"This ring is too big for your fingers," the Persian had stated absentmindedly as he haggled with the shop owner for an agreeable price.

"I know," Christine had softly replied, careful not to meet his astonished eyes.

When she had retrieved her handbag from the set of drawers and opened it, she found four silver and blue bracelets adorned with opalescent shell engravings. They were exquisite. And they would be lovely upon her wrist—much prettier than the red bracelet. Her angel knew very well that she had a weakness for beautiful, frivolous things.

She cursed him silently and slid her hands through the shiny circles.

It was plain to the young woman that the theft of her bag had merely been one attempt of many (others included several more notes, bodiless voices, and the gift of a thorny rose with the sentiment "I thought of you" attached) made by Erik to reinforce their former relationship: he, the teacher and she, the pupil. She could, in a way, understand his desire for this again. After all, he had been comfortable with this arrangement. He had had control over her—choosing what she wore, how she sang, who she associated with—and she had not questioned it. One did not challenge a beloved maestro.

The fact was, however, that they had long ago outgrown this comfortable, detached, understanding. Teacher and protégé had struck a match, played with fire, and felt their souls burn as the flames shed light on frightful elements of love they had never before witnessed. And now they were caught in limbo—they could never be as they once were, but were afraid to discover what they could be.

It is time to remedy that, Christine had vowed, stringing the thin chain through the gold ring and slipping it under her jillayeh. My angel would rather retreat into the darkness. I desire to move further into the light. Somehow, we must find a way to meet halfway.

Jean-Paul loosed another howl of protest as his mother inattentively tugged at his hair with the comb.

"I want down, Maman!" the boy cried, casting a glare of righteous anger upon her.

"S'il vous plait, Jean-Paul."

"S'il-plait."

"That is good enough, mon petit." Christine sighed and released the indignant child. He slid down from her lap; she swore he strutted away from her, if it was possible for a toddler to strut. Gracious, if he is given the chance to perfect this grand air of his, he shall one day be worse than Erik. She shook her head, the mere thought sending a shiver of dread up her spine. How would she ever handle him? And yet she was determined to see her plan through, resigned to the fact that she was a glutton for punishment.

Sister Helena laughed airily as the child scooped up his plush white horse and toddled over to her open arms.

"And who is this fine horse, Monsieur?"

The boy grinned and plopped the animal in her lap. "Papa's Ceez horse!"

His mother reddened. "The horse is named 'César'."

"Your little boy must miss your husband a great deal," the sister commented sadly. "He does seem to be doing very well, so soon after..."

"Yes," Christine quickly replied, her blush spreading to her ears and neck. "Thank you for offering to care for him this evening, Sister. I cannot express how grateful I am to you for your kindness. Papi and Norry should return from the orphanage before too long, so if my little man begins to overwhelm you, one of them would be more than willing to take him. Henri, unfortunately has taken ill today." She did not mention that the avocat's symptoms strangely resembled those of one who had ingested a poisonous substance.

The old woman patted the worn mother's hand. "You look as though you could use an evening of quiet rest and reflection, my dear. Do not be concerned for your child's welfare—I am more than happy to help."

The Comtesse could only nod, the guilt from her deception weighing heavily upon her conscience; wandering through forbidden Roman ruins did not exactly constitute "rest and reflection." Thanking the nun again and kissing her distracted child's forehead, she made her way to her bedroom to prepare for the difficult task that lay ahead.

How does one lay the past to rest, when there are still so many unanswered questions?

Christine gazed down at the elaborate brooch she had carried with her from Paris—the last gift Raoul had given her, for their third wedding anniversary. Tripping the tiny latch, she opened the lid to reveal the two portraits—her father's and Raoul's—those that had been most dear to her, that she had loved with a childlike, unquestioning devotion. And they had loved her back, the girl that had been Christine Daaé. Two men: unselfish in their instruction and patient with her whims.

Christine Daaé, however, does not exist anymore, the woman reflected. Her name was erased when death knocked at her door and drove away the child. I am no longer that frightened little girl.

The Comtesse Christine de Chagny did not seem to suit her either. The name "Chagny" had been left behind in Paris, though her son carried it yet. But she was not a Chagny…she truly wondered if she had ever been one. Raoul had loved his family legacy, and had upheld its honor as best as he could, despite the condemnation he had quietly suffered for his rather unconventional choice of a bride. She had been his wife but never a part of his family; and she had certainly not felt like a Comtesse. Therefore, she had left the name "Chagny" behind when she said her goodbyes to Raoul and opened her arms to her angel.

And now Erik…

What shall my name be? she pondered, absently running her fingertips over the delicate gilding of the brooch. Erik does not have a last name…he does not seem to need one. Could I live without a name, as he? Simply "Christine"…no labels of ownership, no affiliations or responsibility to anyone but myself.

It would be impossible for me to keep the name "Chagny" once I am his. Relinquishing my title will make it more difficult to protect my son's estate…but what is material wealth to a boy? Wouldn't he rather have a father?

Christine studied Raoul's handsome, guileless face…blue teasing eyes, full mouth that would break into a wide grin with the slightest encouragement.

Poor Raoul. He had been cruelly cheated out of the long life he should have had. Wrenched away from his wife, his baby son, without so much as the comfort of a lifetime's worth of memories.

How proud he had been the day Jean-Paul was born. Christine had not been aware of much that night; hours and hours of difficult labor had driven her to utter exhaustion. Through her haze of pain, however, a single, powerful vision caught her…Raoul hovering above her, his handsome face deeply etched with lines of worry, eyes full of love for his wife. Brushing damp hair from her eyes, he had cradled their red, wriggling son in his arms for her to see, because she had been too weak to hold the babe herself.

"Christine, look at the magnificent son we have made together. I am so thankful for you, Little Lotte, my wife…"

Tears ran down the woman's cheeks; she had not realized she had been crying. It was not fair that Raoul—a man who had given her everything and asked for nothing—should have lost the two things most dear to him. It was tragic that when he was alive, she had not been able to love him completely.

Always holding back…never fully letting go…

A sob broke in her throat. "Raoul, you deserved more than I gave to you. You should have had a wife that loved you with her entire being, not half of a heart. And yet you never blamed me, or hated me for it…somehow, you understood."

A shuddery breath escaped from her mouth, cooling the salty tears upon her lips. "It is not often that a person is given the opportunity to mend the broken spirits of the past, but I have been given just that, Raoul—a second chance. This time, I can love somebody completely without guilt weighing upon my shoulders. I will never again have to think of my angel and ask 'what if I had stayed?'"

Christine snapped the brooch shut. "You were the correct choice, then, and the best husband for the scared little girl that I was. I am no longer that girl, though—I have lost too much, and loved too deeply. And now the woman must face the truths she could not as a child." Rising from the edge of her bed, she moved to the tattered set of drawers that held her other cherished mementos.

A strong gust of wind blew through the room, causing the white curtains to snap wildly. The fresh smell of rain permeated the staleness of the room, driving out the hot, stuffy air and replacing it with a pleasant coolness. She quickly crossed the room to the windows. Layers of black clouds pillared up towards the gray sky, warning that the storm would be arriving at any moment. A vague memory came to her…one of a Brittany shoreline…and another storm, just off of the coast.

She could hear Raoul's voice…

"All of this—this place—it is fleeting, just as life is…you cannot remain here in this endless limbo…waiting for a storm that shall never arrive, a boat that shall never dock. You must choose either to go on, or return…"

Christine lifted her face to the feel the wind, murmuring softly. "It is time for me to let you rest in the past, with my childhood. Please know that I cannot remain in limbo any longer…I have to move on. Perhaps if you had lived, our love would have grown deeper roots." She shook her head. "But I cannot keep asking 'what ifs'…Erik would not understand…not as you did."

An abrupt knock at the door startled the young woman and she dropped the brooch upon the floor, causing Raoul's portrait to pop out of the setting. Calling for the visitor to enter, she knelt to observe the damage done to the jewelry. The small picture seemed to be intact, and with relief, snapped right back into the brooch, as if it had been designed to be removed. Strange, that she had never noticed the little space behind the portrait. Perhaps she would place a lock of Jean-Paul's hair there.

"Madame de Chagny, did I come at a bad time?" The Persian stood in the doorway, the strong winds from the breezeway blowing his robes about. He glanced at her red, puffy eyes and trembling hands.

Christine quickly shook her head, smoothed her skirts, and rose to greet the man. "No, not at all," she sniffed, wiping away the few tears that still clung to her lashes. "I was simply coming to terms with my fate, I suppose," she smiled, trying to infuse a touch of humor in her voice, but failing miserably. "Do you have it?"

"I do." He held up a black package. "However, this also was put into my care today. Perhaps you would like to open this one first?" He handed her another small parcel. She hurriedly tore away the paper, her fingers shaking with unease. Tossing the wrapping behind her she unfolded a length of silky material, the color of the sky. The edges of the mendil were embroidered with a fine silver thread, the stitches so tiny and intricate that she could barely see where one ended and the other began. A note fell from the folds of the fabric. She retrieved it and excitedly slit it open, scanning over the brief contents.

My Dearest Madame,

You have now received several letters from me, all of which, unfortunately, have gone unanswered. If you continue in this manner, I shall simply be forced to assume that you have conceded in our rather uneventful parrying match, before you have offered your first en garde. Be advised, my lady, that should you choose to make your move after the game has ended, retaliation beyond your wildest imagination shall rain down upon you.

The mendil should compliment the bracelets well, I believe.

Yours,

E

Christine smiled at her angel's brief words; she could tell that his patience was wearing thin. The Persian handed her another note, this time addressed to him. "You may read this as well, if you like. She unfolded the paper and read the letter, at once noting the less playful tone.

Daroga,

I must apologize for not meeting with you face to face, but as several of your daily obligations seem to require the presence of one or more of your household, I am resigned to put my concerns to paper.

As you know, I have continued our search for Sergei Dagaev, as recorded in the Comtesse's bank ledger. While I can say with certainty that he most definitely resides in the Jewish Quarter among a tightly knit group of Russian refugees, pinning him down is proving to be an irritable task. The Russian Jews are not especially trusting of strangers (above all, masked strangers), as several radical groups, one being the Narodnaya Volya, have driven them here. I have made several forceful inquiries into Dagaev's whereabouts, all of which have proved fruitless.

If no progress has been made within a week's time, it shall soon be necessary to reassess our plan of action.

Your humble and obedient servant,

E

PTO

Please inform Madame de Chagny that while I have been occupied with the above-mentioned task, I do not intend to back down from the agreement we struck not two weeks ago. She, however, seems determined to forget the entire event. Kindly remind her of her obligation to uphold her end of the diversion.

Christine softly laughed at the man's irrepressibly persistent nature. Her glistening eyes caught those of the daroga's; he was not smiling.

"I must admit, Madame Chagny, that these 'diversions' you and my friend play worry me." The man paced about the room. "This plan of yours, with the lasso—you are playing a game in which you do not know the rules. The punjab lasso is not a toy, Christine. It has the power to stir a very dangerous rage in your angel—rage that I would not wish to see directed at you.

Christine nodded, reaching out for the other package anyway. "Nadir, if you please."

The daroga sighed and handed the woman the other package, containing the punjab lasso. She lifted the lid from the black box and peered at the tightly-coiled, leathery rope nestled within the white lining. The lasso was smooth and sturdy; as she let it unfurl to the ground, she ran it through her fingers, admiring the unblemished leather. She refused to think about the animal it had been taken from.

"It is a much lighter color than Erik's was," she said nervously.

The Persian leveled solemn eyes upon hers. "That is because it has never been used, Christine."

"Oh." The woman put a hand to her throat, forcing back the bile that had risen; it would not do to lose her nerve, now. Her gaze followed Nadir as he paced about the room. Every single aspect of his demeanor told her that he did not approve of what she was about to do.

"Nadir, I know that this troubles you greatly," she began, overlooking the man's quiet snort, "but this is something I must do, precisely for that very reason you mentioned. This simple lasso…it has a hold over me that I cannot fathom. I have tasted death because of it; now I have so many questions, I don't know where to begin." She placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. "But Erik can teach me! He can answer my questions. I need to know what drives him to kill, Nadir…I want to see why death absorbed him for so long. And once I understand this, I will understand him."

The Persian shook his head. "I believe you are making a grave mistake, Comtesse. Erik burned that rope of evil for a good reason, and I wish that you would leave it in ashes. If you must seek him as your husband, do so openly by reasoning with him. Tell him what you want from him…see what his reaction is. It may surprise you."

Christine held out her hands in helplessness. "You know as well as I do that Erik cannot be reasoned with. He has resolutely decided to keep himself hidden away from me, and no amount of reasoning will persuade him otherwise. The only time he throws caution to the wind, unfortunately, is during his black rages—when he takes what he wants. And I believe he wants a wife."

"This is true," the daroga replied steadily. "However, carefully laid plans tend to go horribly wrong during his black rages. What if you are mistaken in what he wants? I have been, before, and it cost me five years of my life. As I said, I would hate to see you hurt, Christine."

Fear and doubt seeped into her mind, and she paused at length before softly answering him. "This is a risk I am willing to take, Nadir." She bit her lip. "I…I don't think that he would hurt me."

The Persian sighed in resignation and patted her cheek. "I can see that you are a force almost as formidable as your angel. Very well, take this risk, if you must. I shall return in ten minutes to walk you to the ruins entrance.

OOOOOO

The obscure entrance the sister had spoken of was not difficult to locate, once one knew where to look for it. At first glance, the heavy wooden door appeared to lead to nothing of consequence: a storage space under the stairs, or a side room off of the hallway. The doorway itself was only four feet tall and distinctly reminded Christine of some secret passage to another world, as she had read about in fairy tales.

"If he is down there, he will most likely be living close to the water," Nadir explained as he fiddled with lighting the lantern for the woman.

"I had thought to look near the cistern," Christine said quietly, peering around the empty sanctuary of the convent.

He nodded, holding out the lantern. "It will be easy to become disoriented, Madame. If you begin to lose your sense of direction, turn around and come back."

She took the light from his hand. "Perhaps I should have brought some of my personal stationary with me," she murmured, recollecting the flecks of paper she had scattered in Erik's labyrinth to lead her back through 'Hansel and Gretel's forest.' What a child I was even then, not five months ago, she mused.It was comforting to remember her first glimpse of him through the darkness, after years of believing him to be dead.

She took a deep breath, focusing on the task at hand. "If I become disoriented, I will go back."

"Are you certain you do not want me to accompany you?"

The woman smiled at the man, touched by his concern for her even after she had tossed aside his advice. "You are a good friend, Nadir, but I have to do this alone. I am not only proving my strength to him; I need to prove it to myself."

The Persian nodded. "May he endeavor to deserve you, Madame. Ma as-salaamah."

Christine watched his retreating back in despair. For a fleeting moment, she almost ran after him as he left the sanctuary. Then she straightened her spine and tried her hand at the doorknob, exhaling with relief when it swung open. Glancing back and forth to assure that no one observed her movements, she slipped through the door and into the dark unknown.

This is not a fairy tale, Christine, she quietly reprimanded. Erik is going to be tremendously angry with you—and very hurt—until he understands your motives. In all likelihood, you will destroy the fragile understanding you have patched together if you do not tread with care. Fairy tales have no place in this deadly game. One misstep…

The light in her lantern at once illuminated the tunnel around her—a set of stone stairs faded into the emptiness below, dusty and dirty, seemingly carved directly out of the ground. Christine put her hand to the cold, rough wall to steady herself as she took the first few tentative steps down into the blackness, at once thankful that she had chosen to wear her libas instead of the long gray gown.

Darkness enveloped her, folding its velvet-clad arms around the woman—an Esther in her finery, braving death to plead before her Persian king. She had dressed for Erik, carefully donning the pretty things that he had chosen for her. Dark curls were loosely tucked under the exquisite blue mendil he had given her, her locks perfumed with the lavender scent he found so enthralling. Gold coins smadeh gracing her forehead and blue bracelets at her wrists clanked as she moved, their music lightly accompanying the soft thud of her footsteps through the old Roman path.

And lastly, a punjab lasso was carefully coiled under her blue jillayeh.

…one misstep, and he will turn you away before your game is finished. Erik has to move after you do, to gain the upper hand of the play. Strike first, or be struck. Become the hunter, not the hunted. Hide your weaknesses, so others cannot destroy you…that is what Nadir said of his ways. Have you not seen proof of this time and again, first at the Opéra Populaire, now in Jerusalem? He must believe he has control of himself and of you; that he has struck the final, fatal blow.

Otherwise, he will turn you away as he did in Paris and in London. Leave you behind for good…

The woman halted in the tunnel as she rounded a corner, panic at once seizing her. The path split. She lifted her lantern and peered through the blackness, struggling to make out what the darkness held. Three ancient stone arches rose up on either side of her, each heralding a road that led to a different area of underground Jerusalem. It was impossible to know which path led to the cistern and to Erik; one wrong turn, and she could be lost for days in the labyrinth. Why had she imagined that the narrow tunnel would take her directly to the old pool?

Wobbly nerves stirred her to queasiness, and for a moment she thought she would be ill. Old, familiar weaknesses began to settle into her spirit—feelings of failure, of stupidity. For a moment, she wondered if it wouldn't be best just to turn back and admit defeat.

If you continue on, you will never find your way out again, whispered the child inside of her. And even if you do find Erik, what will it matter? He is a genius…you could never match his brilliance…he will see right through your petty deception the first time he glances at your wide-eyed face…

A small cry escaped from her lips. She closed her eyes and breathed in the dank air, willing away the childlike voice of self-doubt. What was it that Raoul had told her? His words once again echoed in her mind, heightening her resolve…

"Christine Daaé, if you truly desire to save him, you must help your angel to face himself; there is no other way."

No weakness, Christine, she reaffirmed. You have to be strong, as Nadir said…for your angel's sake, and for yours. There is nothing to fear in the darkness…it is a gentle, familiar friend to you. To walk in shadows is not as frightening when there is one close to you that knows the secrets they hide…

The secrets they hide…What was it Sister Helena had told her about the ancient city underneath the convent?

"…when we tapped into the water source underneath the convent, we had to cut through the old plaza's thick paving stones that had been used to vault over the cistern…"

Christine gazed upon her surroundings, endeavoring to see them in a different light. Three arches, where three roads had at one time met. Massive squares made up the smooth floor of the room…a room that at one time, she was sure, had been Hadrian's marketplace. And if this was the Lithostrotos, then the cistern would not be down one of the three roads, but directly under her feet.

There must be a way below, somewhere…

The woman closed her eyes and listened intently to the quiet of the chamber. The faint whistling of the draft through the tunnels and stairway was the only soft sound that met her ears. And then the gust stilled, and she heard it—the faint lapping of water somewhere far away, a noise that would barely be discernible to one who was not listening for it. Holding her lantern down to light the stones, she followed the sound across the Lithostrotos, the sloshing gradually becoming louder as she moved farther left.

At one point the light failed to glint off of the floor, but sank through a large black hole where one of the squares had been pulled away. A wooden ladder peeked through the opening, the only means to the lower level. Christine frowned and tucked the hem of her thob into her sash, reluctant to climb down the rickety thing. With one hand on the ladder and the other clutching the lantern, she cautiously stepped down one rung at a time until her feet safely touched the floor beneath.

Holding her light above her head, she peered into the new chamber, at once awed by what she saw. She stood at the top of a narrow staircase that led down into the cistern water.

The cistern itself was not a small well as she had pictured, but a massive chamber divided into three compartments, its reservoir the size of the Opéra Populaire's auditorium. The walls slithered with gold and green reflections as the lantern light bounced off of the water's surface. Moving the beam across the slimy walls, the woman searched for a clue to indicate her angel's residence. The pale light crossed some sort of wooden scaffolding that ran half the circumference of the cistern, then disappeared into a black opening on the other side.

If he is not living in the chamber beyond that doorway, then I shall abandon this plan completely, for it will truly mean I know nothing of the man. Gingerly stepping off of the stairwell, the Comtesse eased her weight onto the planks and tested their durability. The walkway appeared to be sound. As quietly as possible, she made her way along the edge of the cistern until she reached the little black opening. Stretching her hand out in front of her, she was surprised to feel rough material. Further investigation revealed that the material was actually a black drop-cloth that had been hung over the arched doorway.

I knew it!…she rejoiced, and drew back the curtain. The chamber was pitch black.

Lifting the lantern, she peered about her angel's abode. The room itself resembled a cave more than the ruins of ancient fortress, save for a few ornamental pillar bases and bricked-in archways. The walls were an orangish color, streaked with brown that was either the residue of a fire, or muck from the damp air. Signs of life were scattered about the chamber: several candelabras that had obviously been taken from the convent, a rucksack, sleeping palette and blanket, several changes of clothing, a scattering of papers, and a few other necessities. Apparently her angel had been living a sparse existence for the past two months—something that probably did not bother him in the least.

Christine quietly moved about the room lighting candles and steering away from his personals, afraid to be caught prying in things she should not. Sheets and sheets of paper were scattered about one corner as if they had been blown across the floor by the wind, or had been rifled through in a frenzied manner. Kneeling to gather them up, one of the pages caught her eye, and she quickly glanced over the red notations.

It was one of his compositions—a recent one, judging by the freshness of the ink. Flipping through the other sheets in her hand, she belatedly realized that certain pages of music had most likely not been haphazardly scattered, but placed across the floor in a deliberate, overlapping order. A blush crept to her cheeks and she immediately set the music down, dreading Erik's reaction to her carelessness.

Ah well, nothing to be done about it now, she sighed, and lifted the sheet that had originally caught her attention.

The music was some sort of aria, though the melody was odd and disjointed, and the lyrics were written in what appeared to be gibberish. Reading through the phrases, she picked several out that did not appear to be extremely difficult and hummed through the line. She struggled to pick out any coherent pattern to the melody, as sharps and flats leapt out in the oddest places.

As the woman sang on, however, she began to realize that the music was meant to have a freer, exotic feel as opposed to a strict cadence—certainly it was nothing like any aria she had ever heard. As she became more comfortable with the rise and fall of the phrases, the melody took on an obscurely familiar sound…almost like the adhan she heard five times daily, echoing from the minarets.

The music was ingenious…tantalizing, rhythmic. Christine tried to sing a few of the words, her tongue stumbling over the strange pronunciations. She frowned in concentration, trying it again.

"The language is Persian. It is written phonetically."

Christine spun around, the paper fluttering to the ground. Her angel stood before her, his glittering eyes fixed upon her face.

"How did you find this place?" He swept his cloak from his shoulders, sending droplets of rain flying across the room. His thin fingers brushed the damp hair from his face and slicked it back against his head. Glancing about the room, he gave a cursory examination of his possessions to ensure that nothing had been touched or moved.

"I only learned of the cistern yesterday. It seemed the most logical place for you to be." Christine searched for words; the courage she had fought so hard to maintain was now sadly lacking. "Your music is simply breathtaking, Erik. So unique and foreign sounding," she stumbled, "although I am afraid I accidentally ruined the order…"

Her teacher waved a hand, dismissing her apology. "It is no matter. I can rearrange it."

She stared at him doubtfully. "You are not angered by my prying?"

"The music is for you, Christine. All of it." His tone was indifferent; when his eyes caught hers, however, the gold burned her relentlessly. "I wrote it specifically to strengthen your voice; you would have seen it, eventually, as soon as we resumed your lessons."

Her heart tightly constricted in her chest, the sheer impact of his gift striking her like a warm gale. At least fifty pages of music were scattered about, a tangible proof of his love for her. He had heard her pathetic, degenerated voice. Yet instead of bemoaning the loss of the golden soprano, he had tirelessly composed scores upon scores of notes and lyrics, pouring his genius into a new music to compliment her new voice. Some great fear inside of her loosened; not even the devastation of her voice could destroy the music that bound their souls together.

Mon Dieu, she mourned silently, suddenly remembering the punjab lasso that rested just under her cloak. How can I ask this of him now?

He continued on, taking no notice of her conflicted spirit. "The music had been ordered from simple to complex, so the piece in your hand would have been your first assignment. I am pleased that you were able to pick out the melody so quickly."

Christine struggled to speak, her mind foggy with panic. "Erik…this is not an easy piece. It is beautiful, but…"

It did not take her angel long to sum up her utter distress. His eyes narrowed suspiciously, at once seeing that his music brought her no pleasure. "Christine, enough of your tête-à-tête. Why are you here?"

"I…I have come to ask for lessons." She could not look him in the face.

"As we have been discussing."

His voice was smooth and calculating…his gaze swept over her, scrutinizing her motives without missing a single detail. He was summing her up, already looking for ways to gain the upper hand.

Where had her reserves of strength gone? They had fled from her before she had even begun her attack, leaving her to fight her battle alone…weak…a child once more.

And yet there was no going back now; she had made her choice long ago, carefully planning for this moment even before they had begun their game. The gold ring pressed against her skin under her thob…a hard, glittering reminder of what would be hers if she could just survive these next few hours. One game was all she needed to win against him. Just one; then he could play all the games he wanted to from there on out and she wouldn't care. Because when the games finished, they would discover they had fought on the same side.

She shook her head, mustering her strength once more. "I am not asking for voice lessons, Erik," she murmured, slipping the punjab lasso from under her jillayeh and laying it across her lap as if it were a docile serpent.

"I am asking you to teach me to use this."

Erik's face turned stony, his lips white and bloodless.

Dear God, she hoped she had not made a mistake.

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