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 for all of my original ones.

Side Notes:

Thank you to Le Chat Noir for betaing! Her own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen name "Chatastic".

Thanks for all of the awesome reviews and encouragement!

Soirée

The early morning sun was gloriously bright, its disingenuousness mocking the three men who stood grim and silent amidst the bustling seaport of Limnos Island. They watched with stony eyes as the crew of the Kairos filed along the Myrina dock, bearing a plain cypress coffin upon their shoulders. Each of the three men was dressed in a lightweight suit, clutching bowler hats in their hands as if they were preparing to spend the day leisurely strolling about the green Mediterranean hills rather than beginning a long funeral procession to France. Yet it seemed only proper to abandon their worn abayas and thobs. In a sense, they were putting the Mid-east behind them—banishing it to the past, only to be recalled as yet another faraway place in a long line of elusive, dreamlike journeys.

A fourth man—a robed priest—preceded the crew up the gang-plank, making the sign of the cross as the body of Papillon Nitot was carried aboard the fishing vessel. He stood aside for them to pass and then slowly moved towards the three mourners, extending a hand to each man.

"Monsieur Nitot," he said, "I am truly sorry for your loss." The old caretaker nodded, his haunted eyes still staring at dark doorway through which his daughter had been taken.

"I will always be grateful for what you did for my girlie, Father Jakob. Your orphanage gave her a chance to put her heart and hands to use again."

"She was a blessing to our mission in Jerusalem for the short time she was with us. Those children will never forget her; nor shall I."

"None of us will," said Nadir quietly. He cleared his throat. "Are you certain you will not travel with us to France?"

The priest shook his head. "My God calls me home, to Jerusalem. There is a greater good—a peace—that hovers just above the city, waiting to rain down upon its stones. I'd like to think that I will be in the middle of such a rain, when it comes."

"Then I pray that the blessings and peace of Allah will be upon you." Nadir grasped the man's hand. "As-Salaam Alaikum."

"Wa Alaikum Salaam," replied the priest. His old eyes crinkled as he smiled and turned to the severe-looking masked man standing next to the Persian. "The crowds of people make you uneasy, I think?"

Erik ignored the question. "My wife and I wish you a safe journey, Father, and thank you for all that you have done."

"I had wanted to say goodbye to Madame Reinard also." He glanced around the dockyard, searching for the young woman.

"She is already aboard the ship, resting in a cabin. Sleep was not her friend last night, I am afraid. The child—"

"The child, indeed," Nadir muttered. Erik glared at him coldly, and continued.

"The child is causing her some discomfort. A sea voyage is not ideal, but we seem to have little choice."

The wizened cleric studied the man's face, noting his furrowed brow, narrowed eyes, the acerbic way he spat his words. The child. It was as if the very expression was sour upon his tongue. But then, most of what the embittered man said to anyone other than his wife dripped with vitriol; perhaps it was just his way. Father Jakob sighed.

"I cannot pretend to understand you, Monsieur Reinard. In the end, however, I believe you just might live up to your name. Honest…incorruptible…take it with you, hold it close. It is either this, or the thieving fox."

Erik's mouth quirked in amusement and he bowed low, dramatically, sweeping his bowler across the tops of his shoes before straightening and dropping it upon his head. "Father Jakob," he said sincerely, "you have my word."

ooOOoo

True to Erik's prediction, the sea voyage to France was not kind to Madame Reinard, just as it hadn't been aboard the H.M.S. Inflexible so many months before. A brief respite in Athens gave the ill woman a chance to regain her sense of balance before they left the Kairos behind for passage on a large steamship to carry them to Marseille. And then, despite the fresh sea air and sunny decks, Christine once again found herself victim to a weak stomach, confined to her cabin while her husband could only watch in bewildered concern.

"Is this…a normal occurrence?" he asked as he curiously studied his wife, whose face was buried in a pillow.

"If you had been sensible and traveled in our company the last time instead of prowling about and tormenting my avocat, I would not have to answer that question," she snipped.

"Ah, but if I had been aware of this…facet of your personality, I mightn't have married you, my wife," he said drolly, then neatly dodged a pillow as it hurtled past his head.

"Erik, leave!"

"When she speaks with her sweet, doll-like ways, it sets my heart on fire."

"Mon Dieu, you are trying! Please, leave me alone."

Undeterred, he sat next to her, pulled her hand from beneath the pillow and clasped it in mock veneration. "Certainly her innocent charms have bewitched me. As light as the finest spun glass, dainty in stature, she seems like a figure that has stepped down from a delicate screen—"

"Pinkerton indeed!"

"—and gently comes to rest with so much silent grace, I am seized by passion and wish to give chase!" Erik wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck, ignoring her squirming protests.

"Erik—go brood and write music, I beg of you!" Christine wrenched her arm from his grasp, inadvertently sending a swift elbow into his torso. Releasing her at once, he pressed a hand to his ribs.

"I have missed you, my angel." Wheezing in pain, he stepped back from his wife, holding up a hand to halt her profuse apologies. "No. I will leave as you ask." He quickly pressed his lips to her pale, clammy forehead, slipped on his lounge jacket and stepped into the cool evening air to search for an abandoned deck where he could walk and 'brood.'

Erik found such a deck not far from the hull; leaning against the iron rails, he stared, mesmerized, as the ship sliced through the sea and churned the blue-frothed waters over-top itself, disturbing the otherwise calm night. Such was his existence, so it seemed. He was doomed to topple the quiet balance of still waters, the promise of peace looming just ahead on the horizon, forever out-of-reach. Even now, when his wife's warm presence should have fulfilled the daroga's foretelling of quiet waters, the knowledge that he would face Mas Quennell when they reached Paris weighed heavily upon him and he found that, for the first time in his life, he had too much to lose.

A wife. A young child hidden away in Bohemia, and soon, a second child…what if he lost them again? Paris would be dangerous, and for the fiftieth time since he'd done it, Erik cursed himself for agreeing to take Christine with him.

And suppose they survived Paris. In four months, Christine would have her "lie-in," as she had so delicately put it. What if their child came early? Or what if his wife developed childbed fever after the birth? What if…Erik's blood turned to ice as he mutely traced the edge of his mask. Gripping the railing, he leaned down and pressed the unmasked side of his face to the cool metal, struggling to reel in his wild thoughts.

There were no answers; he knew as much. The part of his life not consumed by music had been dedicated to finding a reason why he looked as he did. Countless hours were spent studying theoretical medicine, alchemy, natural sciences, even Marx's alienation ideas and Mauss' reciprocity—all to answer the question "why this face?" And what had he gained? A startling genius and knowledge of all things, yet no concrete justification for the monstrosity he had been cursed with.

Erik wondered what Christine would think of having a deformed child.

He was just about to return to the cabin and ask her when a slight, shadowy movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He paused, listened, and continued walking. Someone was watching him, following him. Casually, he sauntered down the length of the ship, humming snatches of Che faro and glancing at the ground every now and then to observe the human shadow cast by the flickering deck lights. He turned another corner. So did the shadow.

"Merde," he breathed as he found himself in the middle of a small first-class soirée on the stern. Weaving in between the glittering crowd, Erik flipped the collar of his jacket up to cover the masked side of his face as best as possible; still, a woman here, a man there, sneaked a curious look at the white flash of mask before conscientiously turning back to their conversation partner, burying their eyes behind a wine glass. Slipping into a dark doorway, he waited.

Sure enough, a man strode past the door as he frantically searched the hallway, his brown tweed coat conspicuous against the rich black eveningwear of the others. Erik waited a moment, then fell into stride behind the man, careful to maintain distance until they were well away from the party. Fingers grazing the rope looped at his waist, he called to the man in Russian.

"Gospadin, I wish to speak with you!"

Startled, the brown-coated man spun around, his eyes widening at the sight of the masked man stalking towards him, eyes cold and gleaming. And without a second thought, he ran.

Cursing, Erik gave chase. Down the decks he flew, evading flabbergasted nighttime strollers and wicker chairs, turning corner after corner until he was certain they had traversed the circumference of the boat. When he rounded another corner, however, the Russian was not there. Mytisfied, Erik clamored down a flight of metal stairs and searched dim hallways and rooms for the man. There was nothing; it was as if he had vanished into thin air.

When Erik returned his cabin shortly after the odd incident, he found Christine considerably improved from her latest bout of seasickness and folded into an armchair with a ship-loaned book, her limbs tucked beneath her, eyes riveted to the pages. She smiled warmly. As she took in his winded breathing and ashen face, however, the smile slipped and she stared, her own face paling.

"Already?" she whispered. "They have found us?"

Erik nodded. The book fell from her hand and she closed her eyes.

"I thought someone had been watching me, but I could not be certain. I simply believed that our child was claiming my sanity along with every other part of me." Christine sighed. "French or Russian?"

"Russian—the Narodnaya Volya, I would imagine. He could only have boarded in Athens, which means…"

"The Fraternité knew I had gone to Constantinople for you, and has been waiting for us to return to France," she finished.

"Possibly. I am sure they were watching other port cities, as well. But the essence of it is correct—they are holding back, waiting to see what we will do." He collapsed into the wingback chair next to her and rested his face in his hands, thinking. "I do not want you to go to Paris with me, Christine."

"Erik—"

"No, that is final. We reach the Gulf of Lyon in two days. Until then, do not leave the cabin without an escort, do you understand? Once we land in Marseille, we take the railway to Chalon-sur-Saône without delay. After Mlle. Nitot's funeral at the Chagny estate, I will return to the opera house and you will remain at your chateau with your household."

Heavy silence hung in the air as he finished his edict. And then, to his horror, Christine's face began to crumple and she hid her face in her hands, wiping tears away with her fingers. Through blurred eyes, she rummaged through her pockets, searching for a handkerchief. Sighing, the man reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a crisp white handkerchief and handed it to her.

"I will come back, Christine." He dubiously eyed her as she dabbed at the tears relentlessly spilling over her cheeks.

"I know; please do not mind me," she sniffed. "You have no idea how ridiculous I feel, Erik. I cry at the slightest provocation! One minute I am ecstatic and the next, I am weeping because my waist is gone or my shoes are too tight. And every time I think of my son, alone in Bohemia…" The words caught in her throat and she sobbed, pressing Erik's handkerchief to her face.

"Yet another reason for you to remain at the estate," he replied, hurrying to change the uncomfortable subject. "Think of all that must be done to reaffirm Jean-Paul's place as Comte de Chagny. You have been away for nearly a year, Christine, as has that avocat who was supposed to handle your affairs. No doubt the vultures of the aristocracy have been circling Jean-Paul's properties for some time."

"Ah yes," she muttered. "Raoul's sisters. How strange; I have hardly thought of them since we left London. In Jerusalem, it was as if they belonged to an entirely different life—a world that did not exist outside of the city walls." She blinked in surprise, then began to laugh quietly, her tears dissipating as quickly as they had appeared. "Can you imagine what they will think of me? The former Comtesse de Chagny is now entirely too bohemian for their circles. Not only have I emerged from mourning a year early, I have also married Raoul's sworn enemy, hidden the Chagny heir away in the mountains, and have become…in the family way."

Erik grimaced. "Perhaps it would be better if I continued on to Paris instead of stopping at the Chagny ancestral home. My presence would be something of an insult, I think."

"Oh no!" she laughed. "You are my husband; you must take your rightful place by my side and brave the lion's den with me."

"I assume your household will know who I am?"

"If they do not know that you are the 'phantom', they will soon guess. The events of Don Juan Triumphant were splashed across the front page of L'Epoque, Erik. Every proper aristocrat knew about the scandal, which made me at once glamorous and ostracized before I even entered a parlour. What is one more scandal to me?"

Erik carefully watched his wife; the way her blue eyes shifted to the floor, her nervous fingers twisting the handkerchief round and round. Oh yes, it bothered her very much, despite declaring otherwise. Sighing, he unfolded his long frame from the chair and crossed the cabin to the water decanter, pouring a glass. He pressed it into Christine's hands and she gratefully took it.

"You are too good for them, Christine," he said. "The whole lot is not worth the dirt upon your shoes."

"Ladies with fortunes can afford to be eccentric." She smiled weakly. "The important thing is that I protect my son's title and inheritance. The aristocracy can tickle their turned-up noses with champagne in their drawing rooms and gossip to their hearts' content; I care not."

"Well said, my dear." Erik took her hand and kissed it. He paused as if he were going to say something, but then picked up his violin and bow and began scratching at the strings, frowning in thought. Soon, the random notes merged into a more tangible, familiar melody: La Vie parisienne …

"Paris…" Christine breathed, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "I thought you abhorred operettas." He glanced up at her and pursed his lips, then turned back to the violin. She laughed, his pompous mockery of Offenbach's work delighting her soul, causing her entire being to prickle with the memories of musical exhibitions after gala performances, the vulgar flurry of activity outside Le Café Riche.

She had not gone to the cafés, of course; her teacher had forbidden it. Yet every night on her way home, she would wistfully watch the feathered, colorful crowds merrily streaming into the gilded dance halls, the bal-musettes echoing through the rues, setting her feet to tapping. And then the next day's chitchat in the ballet dormitories—who had tasted absinthe or had made love to a count. Many of the corps de ballet had met sad fates at the dance halls. She, though, had been spared…

Christine gazed at Erik's fingers as they moved over the violin, his right hand still stiff from its injuries. Something akin to gratitude welled up within her—gratitude, and love for the man who considered her "too good" to frequent such places. Impulsively, she leaned forward and gently kissed her husband's cheek. The violin halted and he stared at her suspiciously, afraid that she was going to cry again.

"What is wrong?' he asked.

She shook her head and smiled. "Erik, we are going home."

ooOOoo

The planks of the steamer deck were teeming with passengers that balmy September morning, each clamoring for a place along the railing as the city of Marseille stretched her rocky arms around the travelers, welcoming them into her harbor. To the right lay the jagged archipelago and the isle of If, its ominous prison watching the ship as it passed. To the left was Marseille herself, dressed in red roofs and sandy spires, fringed with hundreds of gleaming fishing boats and swooping gulls. And in the middle of it all, towering above the city streets was the belfry of the Notre-Dame de la Garde and la bonne mere, gazing out to sea, blessing her sons and daughters as they wandered beneath her serene eyes.

"Ma France, je t'ai ardemment désirée," Christine whispered. She closed her eyes and turned her face towards the salty sea air, grasping the brim of her hat before it was carried away. A hand lightly pressed into the small of her back, guiding her along the deck.

"I had no idea you were homesick," said Erik, his mouth curling sardonically at her enthusiasm.

"I did not know how much I missed France until I saw it again."

He chuckled softly and adroitly maneuvered his fanciful wife through the crowd, careful not to lose sight of Mssrs. Khan and Nitot ahead of them at the debarkment ramp.

As the steamer pulled into port, swarms of people pressed against the narrow point-of-exit, anxious to shed their sea legs and find their families. Soon, their feet touched ground.

"Wait here," Erik asked and he shoved his way through the masses toward the daroga. Christine smiled, gazing around the harbor and drinking in the sights and sounds of home. She watched as passengers—Nadir and Norry included—busily directed porters bearing trunks to wagons waiting along the dock. And then Erik was once more at her side, taking her elbow and steering her out of the chaos, toward a brougham.

"I have told them to meet us at the railway station when they finish here. We will go ahead to check timetables, purchase passage to Chalon-sur-Saône, and make arrangements for the coffin."

Christine nodded, only half-aware of what he was saying. For at that moment, she felt a pair of eyes upon her, boring holes into her back and tingling her spine. She glanced over her shoulder, searching through the waves of people moving about the harbor. All of them looked normal, oblivious even. She shivered.

"What is it?" Erik asked.

"I…I think someone might be watching us."

"I am sure they are—they often do." He tapped his mask, lifting an eyebrow.

"It might be them, though."

"Yes, it might. It was expected, was it not?"

Christine sighed. "They could have at least given us the courtesy of an hour to peacefully enjoy our return."

"It is a pity not everyone can be as courteous as you, my angel." Erik handed Christine into the brougham then climbed in behind her, settling into the faded velvet seat. His yellow eyes swept over her nervous person.

"Are you ready to become a Comtesse again?" he asked quietly. She swallowed and straightened her shoulders, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.

"Yes. I believe I am."

It was many hours later, when they were ensconced in a railway compartment and silently watching hills of green peppered by stone houses rolling past their windows, the Chemins de Fer PLM carrying them closer and closer to Chagny, that the full enormity of her situation struck her.

"Erik?" she said hoarsely.

"Mmm?"

"Let's not go to the chateau tonight. We can lodge in Chalon-sur-Saône at an inn, and I will send a note to the house to give them fair warning."

He glanced up from his paper and looked at her curiously. "You wish to hold the storm at bay until tomorrow morning, I assume?"

"Exactly," she replied, well aware that the morning would come all too soon.

ooOOoo

In truth, it was closer to noon before the carriage finally rambled through the iron gates of Le Château de Chagny and slowly wound along the cobblestone drive towards the great house. Erik studied the grand, chimney-laden roof and ivy-clad walls of his former rival's ancestral home with trepidation. He only half-listened as the old caretaker pointed out his various gardens and spoke of his relief that his roses had been tended to and topiaries pruned while he had been gone.

As they drew nearer to the house, he could see servants frantically scrambling about, aligning themselves in front of the entranceway for the arrival of their long-absent mistress. He sighed, bracing himself for the inevitable prying eyes and whispers.

The horses clattered to a halt and the door swung open; a footman stepped forward to assist the lady of the house. Erik noticed that Christine had smartly draped her wrap in such a way that, for the moment, only the most astute eye would notice her growing condition. Even if the household had noticed, though, their curiosity wouldn't be held for long; for as soon as Erik set foot on Chagny ground, every red-rimmed eye was riveted to his masked face. Butler, cook, housemaids, chauffeur, grooms and undergardners…the palpable hostility made it obvious who they blamed for Papillon Nitot's death.

"Madame the Comtesse." A gentleman butler with fine gray hair and an immaculate suit stepped forward and bowed (not too low and not too high, but the proper degree), ushering the small party towards the door. "It is a pleasure to have you home again—I cannot tell you how anxious we have been for you and the young master. I trust your travels were enjoyable?"

"Well, I wouldn't…that is…it was pleasant enough, thank you for asking," Christine said, flustered, and then remembered herself. "Oh—may I present M. Khan and M. Reinard. You received my note yesterday? Of course you did."

"Yes. Congratulations on your recent marriage, Monsieur, Madame." He coolly nodded, careful not to let his dislike of the news shine through. Turning to Norris Nitot, the butler grasped his hand, his astringent features softening. "M. Nitot, I speak for all of the household when I say that we are truly saddened to hear of the loss of Papillon."

The old caretaker grunted. "Thank you. She cared 'bout all of you, this place. It's only right to bring her back here."

"Yes. My lady Comtesse mentioned that you wish to hold the funeral as soon as possible."

"You understand."

The butler nodded. "All of the preparations are underway. You need not trouble yourself."

Norry twisted his hat, blinking heavily as an unfamiliar wetness gathered in the corners of his eyes. Setting his jaw, he plopped the hat back on his head and turned to Christine. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be off to wait for the hearse when it comes from the town, then to the cottage." All quietly watched the desolate father take his leave in heartbreaking silence, at a loss to understand why they were preparing for such a funeral: a funeral of one of their own.

"Martin, will you go with him, please?" Christine murmured, nodding to one of the undergardners. With a start, Erik realized that the servant scrambling to catch up with old Norry was one of the very men who had accompanied Raoul de Chagny in his foray into the depths of the opera house. He hoped that Martin was a slow lad who would not put two and two together. Turning to his wife, he quickly guided her past the servants and through the doors.

"Rooms have been prepared for your guests, along with your suites and the nursery," said the butler, "although, I see that jeune Maître has not accompanied you. He is well, I hope?" He glanced at the woman, his apprehension unmistakable.

"Thank you Aubert. He is very well, and will be with us within the month."

"I am glad to hear it, Madame," he said, relieved. He led them into a magnificent entrance hall, which seemed to traverse the length of the chateau. White gilding and cornflower walls dressed in rich tapestries and paintings…polished mahogany, gleaming bronze statuettes and glass vases, flowers, greenery everywhere…the Chagny family knew how to live in style.

"As you can see, Madame, all has been well-tended in your time away. One of your sisters, Madame Vasser, took up residence with us not long after the disappearance of M. David. Monsieur Vasser has personally been handling estate business ever since."

Christine bristled. "I…had not known they were here."

"Yes. Mme. Vasser wished to give you a chance to recover from your journey. However, she requests that you and your guests take tea with her this afternoon."

Erik and the daroga grimaced. Tea would be an interesting affair, if Christine's many anxious allusions to Madame Vasser, née Chagny—Raoul's stylish elder sister—were warranted.

The butler led them up a flight of stairs and through another hallway, nearly as grand as the first.

"Your guests may choose any of the rooms in the east wing; all have been aired and readied. Is there anything else, my lady?"

Christine shook her head and turned to her bedroom door.

"Ah!" cried the butler, "I nearly forgot. M. Quennell—your husband's former valet? He called earlier this morning to pay his respects and inquire after your health. I informed him that you have been abroad, but were expected to return shortly. He said to convey his best wishes to you, and he hopes to see you in Paris…I say, are you ill, Madame?"

In the course of his revelation, the woman's face had gone quite pale and her hand began to tremble; he thought for certain she would faint dead away. Erik quickly grasped her elbows and steered her through the door to a nearby chaise longue, leaving the stunned butler and Persian standing in the hallway. Unsure of what to do, the man reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a piece of paper.

"He left his card—"

"I will take that, Monsieur." Nadir snatched the visiting card from the servant's fingers, dismissing the man. The butler turned on his heels and fled the east wing, unsure of what had just happened, but certain that in all his years of service to the Chagny family, he had never met anyone as odd as Raoul de Chagny's opera dancer and her acquaintances.

Nadir slipped into the room, skimming over the scripted name upon the visiting card, the elaborate embossment surrounding the edges, and the handwritten note scrawled across the top:

" 'What is mine for what is yours. We shall meet in Paris.' What do you think he means by that?"

Erik glanced up from his wife, assured that her shock was waning. "I suppose he means to return our lives in exchange for that damned oath. The man must still believe that we know where it is."

"Which you do."

"Whether we do or not is no longer any of your concern, Daroga. You told me that you wanted no part in my 'games', remember?"

The Persian leveled hardened jade eyes upon the man, slowly crumpling the calling card in his fist. "Have it your way, du stæm," he said succinctly, tossed the paper on a small table, and left.

Christine sighed. "I wish you would not alienate him, Erik. We might wish for a friend in Paris."

"It is not I who has done the alienating, Christine," he snapped. "Moreover, as you may recall, you are not going to Paris." As her face began to cloud, however, he instantly regretted the bite of his words. After all, was he not, five years ago, the one who had kissed the hem of her dress and begged for her to love him, to stay with him? He shook the thought away, reminding himself it was because of love that he was leaving her behind.

"Christine…"

"Very well," she said calmly. Crossing the room to the massive armoire in the corner, she pulled out several dresses—a green muslin and a black—spread them out upon her bed, and ran her fingers over the fine detail, examining the fashionable adjustments some kind seamstress had taken pains to make in her absence. She turned one of the dresses over to study the lacing; then, satisfied it would still fit her, turned back to her husband. "Return for me in an hour? I should be ready by then."

"Ready for what?" he asked, instantly wishing he hadn't.

"If you absolutely must leave me again, then I only ask that you suffer through tea with my former sister-in-law."

Erik inwardly groaned, the prospect of taking tea in a social capacity clashing with every misanthropic tendency he held dear. This, however, was more than tea; the lines of the battlefield had already been drawn and the prize named, so it seemed. An hour later, therefore, he returned, shaven and immaculate in a crisp shirt and suit acquired in Marseille, ready to brave the front.

The place was the elegant main salon of the chateau, which Christine teasingly referred to as the "Empire room." Erik could see why—its pure white walls, gold-framed mirrors, crystal chandelier, and rich blue rugs bedecked in fleurs-de-lis lent the room an ostentatious regality often found in the haute monde.

The prize, of course, was control of the Chagny fortune. Christine and her son, the sole Chagny heir, had been missing nearly a year. And as Erik studied Madame Vasser while she conducted hostess duties with the cool self-possession of a clever cat, he knew that she did not intend to give up the estate without a fight.

"Your Persian friend is not joining us?"

Christine shook her head. "No, Mme. Vasser; he is still rather exhausted from our travels."

The woman nodded, then glanced about the room, searching for some remark to fill the silence. "Tell me, Madame…I hardly know what to call you now, it has been so long," she said delicately.

"Madame Reinard will be fine."

"Very well, Madame Reinard." The elder Chagny's icy gaze swept over the young woman, her fine blue eyes snapping with disapproval. She was a beautiful woman, Madame Vasser—very much like her brothers in appearance—flaxen hair, high cheekbones and an aristocratic nose. She also had Philippe's unapproachable temperament, so different from Raoul's. Frilled and bustled in rich plum muslin, she sat upon a gold velvet balloon-chair, the epitome of upper crust elegance.

Monsieur Vasser, on the other hand, was a short, roly-poly sort of man who could not have cared less for the soirées so beloved by the aristocracy, as long as a decent meal and good wine were provided. He was a reserved, unassuming man; it was rare that he uttered more than two words during the course of an evening. Never a lover of the delights Paris offered, he preferred the sport of the country estate to the city.

"As I was saying," continued Mme. Vasser, "it is probably best that your foreign friend is not here, because we have some things to discuss that might not be suitable in the presence of company." She turned to the young servant girl in the room and dismissed her, then with impeccable poise, poured tea. "Sugar or cream?" Both warily murmured "No, thank you," and accepted the china cups and saucers from her hands.

"My husband and I are quite at a loss to understand exactly what has happened. In all honesty, Madame, when you left so abruptly with your son nearly a year ago, I would have thought you meant to sever all ties with our family, if not for M. David's assurances otherwise. And then he went missing as well, so we just assumed…well…given his affection for you…" The woman cleared her throat, her cheeks and neck turning pink.

Erik sighed, growing rapidly impatient with the affair. "You obviously have questions for my wife, Mme. Vasser. Please ask them and be done with it." Her eyes flew to his, and for a brief moment, he saw a flicker of fear within them. Ah, so she has guessed who I am, he thought with satisfaction and, deciding that intimidation might work where diplomacy would not, leaned forward and fixed his own threatening eyes upon her.

"Mme. Reinard," she said quickly, turning from pink to red, "where have you been for the past year?"

And thus ensued a gambit of questions, ranging from topics like the death of Papi Nitot, her son's location, to her marriage and subsequent 'condition'; all highly inappropriate parlour conversation, and all answered by Christine with such intentional vagueness that Mme. Vasser finally flung up her hands in frustration.

"Madame, may I be frank with you?"

Christine nodded.

"I never approved of your marriage to my brother—you know as much. However, your behavior after his death disgusts me. If you had disappeared for a year because you grieved his loss, then I might be more understanding. But to return with a new husband and child—yes, I noticed, though you did your best to hide it—when Raoul is not two years in his grave?" She shook her head. "If Philippe were alive…"

"Philippe is not alive, though, is he?" Erik hissed. Three pairs of eyes flew to the silent fury brewing in the sharp features of the masked man, stunned by the rage before them. Mme. Vasser opened her mouth, then closed it, afraid to say anything that might spark the powder keg. It was Christine, however, who diffused his anger. She gently placed a hand upon his, pleading with him for patience.

"Mme. Vasser," she said quietly, "I truly understand your sentiments, and know it is impossible for you to fathom my motives without having been in my place. There is nothing I can do, though, except to tell you that I have my son's best interest at heart. Whatever dislike you have for me, I only ask that it not be directed towards Jean-Paul. He is Raoul's son, as well."

Mme Vasser studied the young mother, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "And what of the Comte's estate?"

"I shall be responsible for the management of my son's affairs. You and your husband, though, may remain at the chateau until Jean-Paul reaches his majority; then the decision will be his." Christine sighed. "This place is more your home than mine, Mme. Vasser. Raoul and I spent very little time here."

The Vassers stared at the small woman, stunned, as if she had suggested they cast off their clothing and dance about the room. Slowly, however, Raoul's sister managed to utter something akin to a 'thank you', the teacup and saucer rattling precariously in her hand.

"Madame, Monsieur, we thank you for your hospitality," Christine said finally, anxious to be gone. "We shan't trespass on your privacy any longer this afternoon." The four rose from their chairs and performed the perfunctory bows and curtsies, taking their leave from each other's company with a tremendous amount of relief. It wasn't until M. and Mme. Reinard were nearly out the door that M. Vasser uttered his first words of the entire afternoon.

"Be so good as to convey my regards to M. Quennell, if you should see him in Paris," he said softly, his plump mouth twisting into a knowing smile.

ooOOoo

It was a modest gathering of mourners who made their way from the august Le Château de Chagny to the Nitot family burial plot, just behind the chateau's ancient stone chapel. The estate's vicar led the way through the late summer gardens, along alleés awash with roses and sunflowers. The casket itself followed, born on the shoulders of six lads who had worked with the maid; then old Norry, shuffling along between the former Comtesse de Chagny and her Persian guest. Monsieur and Madame Vasser were next, and behind the aristocrats were twenty or so bewildered servants, each dressed in their best black with crape mourning bands around their arms, crying for their lost friend.

There were two conspicuous absences from the funeral procession; the first was the little Comte, Jean-Paul de Chagny, whom the servants feared had met with a sinister fate in the year since he suddenly disappeared with his mother and the Nitots from the Paris home. The second was their mistress' new husband—an imposing man, whom many of the household believed was none other than the infamous Phantom of the Opera, whose name they had been forbidden to speak while Raoul de Chagny was still alive.

Nadir Khan ground his teeth in anger as he searched the crowd. Erik could have at least had the decency to pay his last respects to her, he thought fiercely. After all that she gave him…

Papillon. He found he could not think on her just now as he followed somberly in the wake of her coffin, lest he lose himself in the vicious howl that threatened to consume him. Instead, he turned his mind back to his friend, for it was easier to despise him than grieve for her.

Granted, if the masked man had attended, his presence would most certainly have caused a cumbersome unease that overshadowed the solemnity of the funeral. There had been a horrible row the previous night between the former Comtesse and Madame Vasser, and the subject had been none other than Christine's new husband. Apparently Erik had suddenly taken a potent dislike to Monsieur Vasser, and had all but attacked the man with his punjab lasso before Christine somehow managed to steer him from the room. What followed was a sparing match between Mme. Vasser and Mme. Reinard of such wrathful proportions, the servants would be discussing it for years to come.

It is amazing that Madame Vasser did not awaken this morning to find a rope around her husband's throat, he pondered, shaking his head. He glanced at Christine, sobbing quietly under her long black mourning veil, then at Mme. Vasser, stony-faced and grasping her husband's arm. Apparently they had decided to let bygones be bygones, at least for today.

The mourners ambled into the cemetery and circled round the long hole where the soil had been dug away. Nadir's gaze swept over the sight before him. To the left of Papi's grave was a smaller, somewhat new mound of earth: her son, Perri. Next to that grave was Papi's mother, then grandparents, and so forth; generations of Nitots.

I have come as close as I will ever come to sharing in her life, he thought, bowing his head in the knowledge. I saved her life…then led her to her death. I was there when she died, and now I am here as she is placed in the ground. He watched as the cypress coffin was lowered into the grave—lower, and lower, until he could no longer see it, see her. Somewhere to the right, Norry and Christine were weeping, leaning upon one another for support. There were tears all around him…tears, and wails, and sobs…the noise rose up in a morose cacophony, deafening and despairing. The Persian stared into the grave, longing to sink into the ground with her, beside her…

And then another sound ascended above the weeping and wailing—the voice of a single violin, seeming to rise up from the grave itself. The mourners fell silent as each listened to the music—rich and mournful, full of beauty, and misery, and hope, all wrapping around the other to create a requiem so exquisite, it made their souls ache. Nadir closed his eyes and allowed the Libera Me to pull him away from the edge of the grave, where he had so perilously hovered moments before.

When the requiem ended and the vicar finished the rite of committal, all began to file back along the alleés, past the sunflowers and roses, as silently as they had come. Nadir scanned the mourners, tree line, the corners of the chapel, searching for the mysterious violinist. He caught the eye of Mme. Reinard, who gave a subtle nod to a large, moss-covered gravestone just strides away from the funeral site. Thanking the woman, he weaved through the mourners towards the looming cross to find his friend.

"Erik!" he called, catching him before he could escape.

The masked man paused, then turned around reluctantly, desirous to be gone from the cemetery. "Daroga," he replied.

Nadir stared at the man, not quite sure what to say. Erik sighed.

"I must be away to Paris, Nadir, before the funeral gathering at the chateau disperses. M. Vasser—that fat brother-in-law of Christine's—he is one of them."

"Ah. That would explain the attempt on his being."

"I am not made for estate life, Daroga. I would be lynched before the year is out if I remained here."

"And what of Christine? I assume you are not intending to leave her here with M. Vasser."

Erik smirked, reached into his waistcoat pocket, and pulled out two identical keys. "One is from Mme. Vasser's ring of keys; the second, from Aubert's. Christine wants to come to Paris with me, you see," he explained carefully. "However, I would rather you take her somewhere safe; this evening, preferably. She informed me before the funeral that the child was tiring her, so she planned to forgo the reception after the funeral to rest in her rooms. I promised I would see her before I left." Erik handed one of the keys to Nadir. "You will need this, I think."

"She will be furious with you," the Persian cautioned.

"She has been so, before." Before Nadir could reply, the man picked up his violin and fled the graveyard, leaving his friend to brood over how in the name of Allah he could convince an irate Christine to accompany him to someplace other than Paris.

ooOOoo

Erik slipped down the empty hallway of the east wing, towards Christine's boudoir. The day was still early, but late morning sunlight shining through the windows had warmed the hall considerably. No light escaped from beneath his wife's door, however. The drapes are pulled, he reasoned, which means she must be asleep. Dropping his satchel in the doorway, he eased the door open and peered into the dimly-lit room, his eyes taking in the black mourning clothes tossed upon a chair, open armoire, shoes next to the bed. And in the bed itself was the slight figure of his wife, tucked beneath the blankets and sleeping peacefully, unaware of the deception that was about to be inflicted upon her.

At least I have kept one of my promises, Erik mulled. To see her before I left.

With one final glance at the young woman, he closed the door with the greatest of care, turned the key in the lock, and slipped it into his pocket. Grabbing his satchel, he swept down the set of servant stairs, through the bustling scullery, and out the back door to the stables. A frazzled young stable-hand met him at the entrance, stuttering incoherently as he led him to the readied horse and carriage.

"I…I tried to tell her no, Monsieur, that I would ready a carriage to take her to Chalon-sur-Saône, but she insisted. She being the Comtesse, you see—I could hardly tell her to take another carriage!"

Erik stared at the blubbering boy, then angrily pushed past him, flinging the coach door open. Seated within was Christine, neatly dressed in her travelling suit and hat, her own satchel tucked away beneath the seat. She waited patiently with her gloved hands folded in her lap, her pretty mouth set in grim determination; defiance, even.

"I told you that I was going to Paris with you," she finally said, seeing that words failed her husband.

"You…" he stammered, his pale face growing red, "you were supposed to be in your room. I locked you in your room!"

Christine sighed. "Pillows under a blanket, very simple. Erik, I never even returned to my room—I knew that you would try something like this!"

"Christine, for the last time—"

"Of all things, to leave me again; after I found you in Constantinople and paid a fortune to those guards just to let me see you, speak with you—"

"—you need to go back to the house, and Nadir will take you away—"

"Anywhere you go, remember?" she exclaimed, drowning out Erik's protests. "I swore before God to stay by your side in Jerusalem, and I take such a promise very literally. If you leave now, I will only follow you to Paris."

Erik folded his arms across his chest and glared at his wife, his gold eyes narrowing in such an intimidating manner, it would have made a weaker person quake with fear. Christine, however, held her ground and at last he relented.

"Once we reach the opera house, you are to go directly to Madame Giry's chambers and stay there, do you understand?" he hissed.

She nodded and slid over on the seat, making room for her husband as he climbed into the carriage. And then they were off, the chaise flying down the cobblestone drive and through the chateau's gates, carrying them to Chalon-sur-Saône's railway station. Erik leaned back in his seat and said nothing, grinding his teeth in anger at his own feebleness. After a long while, he felt the lightest touch upon his fingers; he glanced up and saw that Christine was watching him with a face full of worry.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He placed his hand over the top of hers, wondering how she had possibly maneuvered her way into the carriage bound for Paris.

"I love you," he replied, and turned back to the window, studying the golden wheat fields as they rolled by, trying not to speculate whether Nadir Khan had said the same words to Papillon Nitot, after he agreed to let her go with him to Istanbul.

A/N: Thanks again to everyone for the encouragement and reviews! I love reading them, and will try to answer any questions you might have. Two chapters and an epilogue to go, folks. The end is getting close…

Something will go up on the website for Ch. 37 and Ch. 38. Just not sure what, yet :)

Story Recommendation: The Valentine's Day Morbidity Contest

Trying something a bit different, kiddos. This update is well-timed, as there is exactly one week left until the voting deadline for the Fourth Morbidity Contest, the Valentine's Day edition. There are some fabulous dark stories, scary stories, and unique stories, but you can decide which is which by participating and voting for your favorites.

The morbidity contests, hosted by The Scorpion, have produced a plethora of phantomy one-shot phiction, including my short stories, Locked Door and The Nacken's Song. It's a wild and crazy time for phic writers, and gives them a chance to write something anonymously that might be completely different from what they normally write, as well as receive feedback.

The Scorpion asks only that you carefully read the rules before participating. The actual contest stories and rules can be found at: http/www(dot)angelfire(dot)com/scary/darkphiccontest/

The contest discussion can be found at: http/www(dot)phansonline(dot)net/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?t507

Enjoy!