Christine took the long way back to the house, walking the shaded path that outlined Phantasma. It was quiet and less anxious out amongst the skeletal trees and old snow than in the center of the park, and the cold air helped clear the nervousness from her body.

She repeated the melodies of tonight's performance over and over, until she was sure she'd incorrectly repeated the bridge twice in her daydreams. It was the final note that concerned her. Not that it was outside her abilities, but that Erik had strictly provided rules for how the note must be given. There was an exact placement for her body, an exact attack for the note, an exact length for how long she must hold it, and an exact command – she could not open her eyes no matter what she heard around her.

By the time she arrived at the back door, her shoes were soaked through and a cold sweat beaded along her brow. But she'd been able to plan her words. And that, at least, was a small mercy.

The smell of warm bread overwhelmed her as she walked through the door. "Careful where you step," Fleck greeted, absorbed in her task of kneading. Flour covered nearly all of the black stone floor. While her cooking was magnificent, Fleck was certainly not the most careful cook in a kitchen.

"I thought you would be practicing for the show tonight."

"It's the same as every night. No need to practice what you know.' She gestured at the oven, "Take those out will you dear?"

Grabbing the edge of her coat, Christine covered her hands and pulled the fresh rolls from the oven. "Why so much bread?"

Fleck didn't answer her at first. She took her time dusting the loaf before her with dried bitter herbs and butter. "I felt like making bread today."

Everyone at Phantasma had secrets it seemed. Christine didn't push, instead making her way to the back stairs. "It would be best to have a light foot. Take those wet shoes off and go up the main stairs." She peaked her head at the peculiar advise but had learned to listen when Fleck gave suggestions. She left her shoes to dry next to the large crock of sealed sauerkraut and turned toward the main hall.

Christine tugged off her winter coat in the living room and rested it over the gilded settee. Even though the fire was low in the room, the relative heat from her chill outside was suffocating. She pulled the clip from her hair and quickly wrapped the loose mess up and away from her neck, securing it with the purple bobble once more. A heavy thud from the upper level startled her. Her eyes peered at the ceiling, waiting for a repeat of the noise. Instead, she heard muffled voices.

She took the stairs slowly, careful not to make a sound. While she knew fooling Erik would be nearly impossible, she did not want her presence known to whoever else was with him. If it had been a performer, Fleck would have said something, surely. Instead of waiting in the small nook outside his study, Christine turned to enter their connecting bedroom. Her clothing was scattered across it in piles. She'd not left if like this.

The voices from the study were louder now, and sharp. She could make out words. Making sure the door was securely closed, she pressed her ear to its center.

"Erik this is impossible. Why are you siding with Porter?"

"Because it's foolish to go against both the railroad and the coal company, Meg. You know this. Do you want Phantasma to fall?"

"But all those people."

"They've had it worse before. It's not our place."

"So none of them matter."

"No. Phantasma matters more."

"She matters more." Christine struggled to keep her breathing even. "After all this time, after everything she's done to you and what we've done together, you go crawling back to her." Meg's voice was awash in anguish.

"I never pretended to love you, Meg."

"No. You just let me love you." Silence filled the air and even Christine could feel the pain pulsing in the other room.

"We built this place together – you and I. We created a place where people like us can feel welcome, whole. Are you really willing to throw that all away because a few rich men are angry with you? Since when has fear ever determined your course?"

Sharp steps echoed in the room, followed by silence. Christine's nails dug into the palms of her hands. She imagined Meg, her dear old friend, pressed tightly up against Erik, her hands holding his face as she kissed him. It was unendurable.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Send her away and come back to me. Help me get rid of Porter Cummings tonight."

"As I remember, you where the one who courted him."

"And it kept us safe, didn't it? It gave us access to the mine you needed, didn't it? Don't be willfully daft."

"Christine begins the show—"

"No. That's my role. You can't be seri—"

"Christine begins the show tonight because Porter expects it. She'll sing her numbers and then the trio will go on. You must close the show, my dear. You must keep him enchanted until the very end if this is to work. He has to believe he's both cuckholded me and won the strike. You should sing the new song tonight."

"The one written especially for me?"

"Yes, the one especially for you."

"The last song you wrote for me you gave to her."

The song about the vengeful wolf. It had been for Meg. About Meg. Christine felt her blood rush in her body. He hadn't given it to her; she'd taken it.

Another pause. All this time. All his words. He could not have been lying. He'd loved her for years. He'd nearly destroyed half of Paris to possess her. He'd damn near confessed his love yesterday to her and demanded hers in return. He was hers and she would hold on to him.

Christine slunk away from the study door across the room, unable to stand any more. Wrapping her hand tight against the crystal knob, she slammed the door to the bedroom closed. "Erik, are you in the study?" she hollered at the door, her voice hard, but not tinged with the bitterness overtaking her. She took metered steps to the door, "Erik?"

When he did not answer, she opened the door on her own. Erik's hands where holding Meg's upper arms tightly, the collar of his shirt open to the air. Meg's own hands had settled on his narrow waist and did not move. His black mask was affixed snugly to his face.

"Erik, I believe this is where you tell one of us to leave."

Meg smiled at her, resting her head on Erik's chest.

Christine refused to make a scene. Not while Meg was still here. Fire blazed in her eyes, but she kept her frame calm, waiting. Neither he nor Meg needed to know just how under her skin they'd got. Erik set Meg way from him, pulling her hands from his waist and moving toward Christine. "Miss Giry, it is time for you to go."

Meg only snickered, her head held high. And to think, at one time they had been as close as sisters. Christine did not even recognize the woman now. While hot anger filled her, Christine couldn't help but recognize some of the pain in Meg's voice. All she'd done was love him; she could not fault her for that.

They heard the front door slam closed, and Erik made sure Meg walked away from the house. For Meg it would confirm Erik was choosing her, his gaze following her from the window.

"Christine –"

"It seems you have not spent years pining away for me." Her voice felt very far away from her.

"That is unfair. Neither did you."

"Yes, but you sent me away and then died."

"We all seek comfort in different ways."

"Oh, and how many years did you seek comfort from her?" her voice rose, deadly.

"How many years did you seek comfort from the Vicomte?" How the rage burned in her chest. She saw the same rage in Erik. It cut his muscles sharper and made the vein in his neck and forehead beat faster. They would get nowhere with this argument. The comparison was unfair and unequal. And Erik was willfully arguing in ignorance.

"She's beneath you."

"Those are fine words coming from you." He paused, the sharpness in his body softening. His face went from angry to blank to astonished, "Christine Daaé, are you jealous?"

She did not answer him and would not look him in the eyes. "She took your innocence," she seethed.

Christine bit her lips closed. She'd not meant to say the statement out load.

"Hardly." Erik walked toward her then, the afternoon light falling against his back. Was that what this was, really? Jealousy that Meg had had first what should have been hers? He took her face in his hands and let her hair tumble through his fingers. "There is nothing between us now. There is only you. There, truly, has only ever been you. You cannot fault me for wallowing in my own pity when all hope was lost to win you. Just like I cannot fault you for loving that boy for so long."

Christine struggled to rein in the possessive tenor of her thoughts. They were dangerous and shameful. She rested her head in Erik's hands and let out a long breath. There would be time enough to eradicate the memory of Meg Giry's touch from his skin in the future. She needed to focus on tonight.

Erik's knowing look beckoned her to let loose her secrets, "How much did you hear?"

"You're playing both sides to protect Phantasma, aren't you?" He did not answer her. "Or are you really going to side with the railroad tonight?" Yet Hanna's words implied he would side with the strikers. He would not look her in the eyes and let her go. "Erik, the people of this town need your help."

"I learned long ago I can be no one's protector." Not even his own, she thought.

"I won't help you. I won't sing tonight."

"Of course you will sing tonight."

"You have Meg. You've written her a special song. Make her your Diva." He rushed toward her again, caging her against the door with his arms.

"Christine, you know I am your servant. You hold my very soul in your hands. Everything I've ever done has been in pursuit of you. It is nonsense to compare yourself to her. And you must sing. There is no other way to create the diversion."

"No. I will not let you use me in this way again. I'm not a puppet for men. If you will not save yourself, I will save you against your will. I hold your soul? Good. It is far better in my care. I will not sing for you. You cannot make me."

"Actually, my love. I can make you." He menaced over her, his tall frame imposing and fierce in the dying afternoon light. She felt him then, brushing at the back of her mind, the press of his thoughts like heavy molasses dripping down her spine. She shivered and the feeling diffused. "But then everything we've worked toward would turn to ash, wouldn't it?"

"You're better than this and I refuse. Do you remember what happen last time you planned a performance like this?"

"I have my reasons."

"They hurt you, Erik. You still walk with a limp. The people just want better working conditions. I won't help you. Siding with Porter Cummings is wrong. You know he wants them all near-dead."

He wrapped her ridged frame in his arms, resting his cheek on her head. "My foolish woman."

"If you do this, if you put me back under your spell, you will never hold me again. Do you hear me? Are you listening." It was a lie. Christine did not know that she could never keep such a vow, not when his body was like a safe harbor in a storm, not when he could draw out such pleasurable secrets from her, but she made the statement nonetheless.

"I hear you. I am listening." He kissed the temple of her brow. "Tell me you love me." Tell me the truth first! Her mind yelled.

"No. Not like this."

"Tell me you'll forgive me. Tell me you'll trust me."

"You've given me no reason to." A lie. Flung carelessly on the floor.

"Then hear this. For you alone does my whole world matter. For you alone are all my actions made. When Phantasma crumbles under our feet tonight, remember that I trust you completely and our survival rests on your trust of me."

"Then trust me now. What will happen tonight?"

His mismatched eyes lingered on hers, and she saw that she asked of him so very much. He'd given her his soul, why couldn't that be enough? No, she must demand truth as well.

"The company has decided a raid on the show tonight is the best way to alleviate the situation. What they really want is unrestricted access to Phantasma."

"And so you'll let them take those innocent men."

"We both know they are not innocent. But no, I will not let them be taken. They will get a fighting chance."

"What about everyone else?"

"You need to be by the schoolhouse with Sam and the other children tonight. Right after you sing, I want you to leave and go to them."

"And where will you be?"

"And from there you will take the trail we walked with the children until you go over the river." It made sense now, her clothing strewn about the bedroom, Fleck making loaves of bread fit for an army, the way Phantasma felt different the last few days. He'd been planning this all along.

It wasn't an end to the strike.

It was an end to Phantasma.

"What will happen?"

"They will burn Phantasma to the ground to steal my secrets. And I will let them. So long as you and the children are gone before the performance ends."

"Where will you be?" She demanded again.

"What matters is you will be safe."

"What matters is where will you be?" she nearly screamed, her fingers burrowing into the shelves of his shirt.

He looked down into her eyes, his hands tight around her shoulders, "Right behind you."

He sealed his promise with a kiss.