The train ride had, actually, been quite short. And very fast. No belongings weighed down their travel and the small engine quickly arrived at a dead-end depot just a mile from a small riverboat waiting on the Susquehanna. A day later they found themselves on another train, in a private car, headed for Pittsburg.

Erik did not manifest. And the more the minutes and hours collected, the wider the sense of doom became in Christine's chest.

She couldn't stop the images of that horrible night from replaying in her mind. They looped and twisted together until they were a mesh of incomprehensible images flashing before her eyes. But there was no way Erik was dead. Her love was better than death.

Christine urged at every stop to wait. Stay. Give Erik time to catch up. She was the only one willing to.

Herbert had met them on the train to Pittsburg and the other adults looked to him to help her see reason. They could not wait; Mr. Y would not want that; they could not take the chance. It was a welcome relief to see his face. Someone had to ensure the arrangements, he'd chuckled. But now his presence only nettled her pain.

More than once Christine thought to leave her company and retrace her steps to her Phantom. The only thing that held her though, was her children. They looked to her for the cues – cautious of the other adults and willing to forsake them at her word. But that was unfair. She could not take them with her if she left. And she would not leave them.

They huddled close, even in her despair, and she felt better in their company.

Sarah would play small melodies on her violin. Elijah would read to her. Charlotte would try in vain to plait her hair. Sam had taken to reading her the most recent newspaper he could get his hands on each morning, trying studiously to translate the sentences into French.

It was beautiful and painful just how much of Erik had worn off on them. She didn't even have to search hard to find him in them. They were his own children after all. She wondered if he ever realized it.

On a brisk Spring morning – the first buds of leaves just peeping out from their tired tree branches – Sam found an old copy of The Pittsburg Chronicle, dated just days before the night of the Spectacular. The stories he read her all sounded so very trivial. At least there was no talk of the mysterious Phantasma and its undoing.

How had it only been a week? She was barely listening as Charlotte brushed her hair. Instead, she watched from her hotel window as all Erik's boxes were loaded into the steamboat Majestic at the Ohio River Port.

"Christine, it's time to go." Herbert's voice was soft through the door.

Sam answered for her, "We'll be there." She twisted her hair up and clipped it in a low bun. "Mr. Y made sure you would have the best cabin on the boat," he offered.

Of course he did. It would have a piano, do doubt, and a large bath for soaking. Accommodations she found at every fine stop they'd had so far. Christine didn't feel anything at the thought. She should, but she couldn't bring herself to. In the mirror her pale face looked back at her. Soon she would look the part of a ghostly bride. She might as well have been locked away in one of Erik's crystal jails.

She kissed Sam and Charlotte on the cheek and sent them on ahead. Fleck took their place in a sharp burgundy dress and matching hat.

"This is not what Mr. Y would want for you." The little lady dropped a large book on her lap.

"What is this?"

"Music. Music we don't have space for. Herbert didn't let me toss it. So if you want to take it with you, you're going to have to carry it."

It was her music. Hers and her father's. Erik had tucked away everything that was important to her in their trunks leaving little room for himself. She pulled at his deep navy coat covering her, desperately searching for the smell him in the fabric.

Don't look back, she reminded herself. If she didn't look back, she could still feel him behind her. Better haunted than alone.


The book of music sat carefully askew in her room, unaware of the rhythmic sway of the river underneath them. The evening breeze softly danced through her open widows, gently pulling at the leather cover. Everyone else had gone off to sleep earlier in the night and she could no longer avoid the page's siren call. Sleep alluded her and the promise of music pulled at her heart.

Christine undid the bow around the middle of the folio. Her father's well-worn music filled her vision: familiar notes dotted the pages before her, reassuring and like home.

But there was so much more music than just her father's. In between the pages lay hundreds more, filled with notes in red ink.

Erik's pages.

Erik's music.

Through unshed tears, she sat at the piano, for, in fact, there was a piano in the room, and began to play the gentle melodies she found there.

She closed her eyes and let her fingers find their own melody in D minor. The world around her stilled.

One death was enough.

Hadn't she lived through enough loss of him? There would be no more smiles, or more conversations, no more music. And no one could play what he'd left her properly. No one would ever play like him.

Her fingers roamed along the keys, making a strange song of longing in their wake. She began to hum in sympathy to the notes.

He'd left her his music and their children. Not theirs, but theirs; Not hers, but hers. They had stood by her side these last days and tried desperately to cheer her while missing him in their own way. Her sadness was unfair to them. She must do better.

She let her hands cross, reaching for the higher register of notes.

And then she heard a sweet accompaniment under her. Longing and lovely.

She was going mad. Had this been how he found the music? Alive and next to him? She was certainly going mad. She must be. Yet she held on, keeping her eyes closed, playing her melody and listening to the intricate additions manifesting around her.

A smile tugged at the edge of her mouth. Her Phantom had chosen purgatory haunting her instead of heaven. How selfish she was in that happy thought.

A cold hand ghosted over her own, and her heart stuttered in her chest. The ghostly accompaniment took the melody from her. Soft lips, strangely shaped, kissed the nape of her neck. The tears she'd kept tightly in fell down her checks in waves.

"If I am going mad please don't leave me," she spoke to the spring night air.

"You said my life was not my own. I gladly return it to you."

At the sounds of Erik's voice, Christine's eyes flew open. She turned in her seat, filling her vision with his disheveled, dirty, yet carefully masked face. Was she mad? It didn't matter. He was smiling and he was with her.

"You're alive." She touched his cheek and he felt so very real.

"You made me promise not to die."

"Only you could keep such a promise."

His fingers danced along her jaw, "It seems you thought I couldn't." At his cold touch, her heart began to beat again, and the overwhelming sorrow retreated back to its sleeping depths.

"Never again." He kissed her then, his lips hungry yet reverent.

"Good."

.

Erik had been filthy, his black mask even caked with mud. Christine rushed to the bathroom and began the tap, her gaze never straying long from him. If she looked away, he may vanish. He took her codling with good humor and allow her to pull his clothes from him and push him toward the bath.

When she urged him to step in, he paused and gently drew her closer by the tie of her robe. When it opened, he washed his fingers in the water and brought them up to her healing scar. He carefully traced along the jagged edges, letting the pads of his fingers rise and fall along the torn skin. Elijah did the same thing when she read him to sleep at night.

The scar no longer tugged in uncomfortable ways but would certainly leave a wide mark across her chest. Low cut bodices would no longer do in company.

At his touch, the restless urgency in her calmed. She tugged at the knots holding his mask in place and gently pulled it away from his face. All she wanted to do was trace every line, dip, and valley and command them to her memory.

"Forever to be a reminder of your implacable determination."

She smiled up at him. At the lost look on his face, she frowned, "I can cover it, Erik. If it's too hard to bear."

"Never. If my wife can look upon my face with love, what kind of man would I be if I cannot do the same? I'm just sorry you were hurt."

"Your…wife?" she whispered.

"Have I been presumptuous? I'll admit the word feels strange in my mouth."

"Your wife?" She asked again.

"I've always wanted you for my wife. If you'll have me for a husband."

Realization filled her mind, "You finally believe I love you."

"Yes." He kissed the palm of her hand resting near his mangled cheek. "And I find that such a fact makes it impossible not to be bound to you before God."

Christine bit her lip. Joy bubbled up within her chest and felt strange, it did not match the calm sense of rightness filling every other part of her. Water overflowed onto the floor at their feet and she jumped to stop the faucet. He should wash first. There would be time for declarations later. "If I kiss you, you'll never get in the tub."

"On the contrary. If you kiss me, we'll both end up in the tub." A bright flush turned her skin the color of her scar. "Does that mean yes, you'll marry me?"

She couldn't help her smile. Just because he was alive did not mean they would not discuss what happened, but she knew that whatever the resolution to those conversations, it would not change her answer. "No more hypnosis."

He nodded.

"I'd like words."

"No more hypnosis."

"And no more false deaths."

"The angels cannot keep me from you."

"Yes, Erik."

"Yes, you will marry me."

She repeated, "Yes, I will marry you."

"Yes, you will bind yourself to me."

"Yes. I will be your wife and never leave your side. I go where you go. And I will love you always."

He kissed her fiercely, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close until all she could feel was his beating heart against her own and his expert tongue promising sinful perfection. He pushed her robe from her shoulders, and she shivered at this possessive touch – so bold and new, yet like him.

Now that he knew she was his, he would not bank his want of her. Good. She would not either. She took his lip between her teeth and tugged, sucking on the plump bit of flesh as she did. He groaned low in his throat and pressed his hips hard against her own.

Before he could pull any more clothing away from her body, Christine stepped back, desperately trying to calm her breathing. "You must be tired and dirty. In the tub with you." She took a washcloth and soap from the side table. Her fingers trembled.

"My love, you have my full attention. I promise." Yes, she did, but that did not mean they had to rush. He'd just come alive again, after all. She pulled him back against the lip of the tub and dropped the washcloth into the warm water.

She started along his shoulders, following the dip and bevel of his lean muscles. He sighed deeply and dropped his head to his chin. "How did it take you so long to get to us?"

"I was not far enough away when the dynamite detonated. By the time I woke up, it was a day later and there were scouts everywhere." She carefully squeezed the rag along his collarbone, warm water dripping onto his skin. Another secret he'd hidden from her. Dynamite in the automaton. She would not dwell on that detailed tonight. "I'm sorry it took so long."

"Did you hear from anyone? Hanna, Mol?" She dared not ask about Cummings.

He nodded. "Everything will go back to much as it was before. Quickly."

"I'm sorry, Erik."

He still her hand against his chest with his own, "Sorry for what?"

"For Phantasma. For Meg. For everything." He slid his fingers through hers and brought the back of her hand to his lips for a kiss.

"There is nothing to be sorry for. Meg lived and is now very wealthy as the last surviving owner of Phantasma. I lost nothing irreplaceable. You made sure of that." She found the wave of relief at his statement rushed through her.

"Still. It was your life's work."

"I've had several of those, my dear. I find that the fulfillment of them is fleeting." She dropped kisses along the back of his neck. "Tell me what you're feeling."

"Relief." She moved to wash his legs under the warm water. "What did Meg say to you?"

"She would not see me. I did—I felt I owe her an apology. When she saw me from the window, she screamed. I couldn't reach her after that."

"She deserved better."

"She knew I couldn't love her when my heart was so full of you."

"In a small way, I believe I know how she's hurting. After all, we love the same man. I know how it hurts to think I've lost you to God. To lose you to another woman, that pain would be unendurable." He let the silence linger over her sympathy.

"What else?" When she did not rush to answer him, or lift her head from her work, he pressed further, "You said before that we—that I did not listen to you. I would like to do so now and always. Please, tell me what you're feeling."

Her hands stilled. She'd pushed all her feelings so far down that she didn't even know what exactly they were anymore. When she'd first left New York, she was so rigidly focused on moving forward she would have sacrificed anything to carve her place in the world. Erik had brought her back to life again. He'd softened her icy hard heart into something willing and warm.

He'd listened. He'd learned. He'd let her into his new home with a patience she would have never imagined him possessing. Yet danger beat through his veins – it always would, no matter how hard they tried to form a regular life. The fall of Phantasma had proven that.

Still, a life of danger with him was far more preferable, short as it may be, to a long life without him.

His fingers bid her chin to rise and look at him. She'd been silent too long. When she met his eyes, she saw love and worry fill them, his brow marked with lines she'd never noticed before.

"I feel like my whole life lays before me. And I'm nervous and excited. I'm calm and worried. Just an hour ago I was wondering how I live with four children and four strange adults. Where could I sing? What name could I take?

"Now you are back with me and I find I don't care anymore. We'll figure it out together." She began to wash him again. "I worry that whatever magic Meg was able to wield to make Phantasma form, I do not possess. I worry one day you will realize I was not a woman to pine over all these years."

"And Cummings?"

Ah, yes. That. She found her heart had not softened on that event, "What were your words? 'I regret nothing that brings me closer to you.' Well I say I regret nothing that keeps my family safe." Porter was evil, he'd threatened so much, and surely, he wouldn't have just let them go. She'd tried to feel remorse but found none within her. If she was damned, so be it.

In his gaze, he did not believe her. He still held more stock in her goodness than she did. Eventually, he would learn.

"Where will we go?"

He didn't even hesitate, "San Francisco."

"California?" He smirked at her tone.

"There's a new Opera House there."

"Erik."

"Opera Houses always look for stunning new divas."

She scooted closer to his face, "Erik, no."

"Erik, no? My love, I thought you liked my scheming."

"I'm not discussing this with you tonight."

"So, no Opera Houses. Understandable. How about a Phantasma by the sea?"

"You're impossible."

He took her arms in her hands. "And you love that about me."

"I do love you. And it's a long way to California." She melted in his hands. "And your bath is getting cold."

"Perhaps you should warm me then?" he asked, quickly pulling her into the water with him.

Christine's laugher rang throughout the room, silenced only by Erik's smiling lips falling upon her own.


The children found Erik in the morning sitting on the small balcony overlooking the Ohio River. His legs were crossed in his characteristically nonchalant way, a Chicago newspaper open in his hands. Their shock gave way to joy as they rushed to him, hugging him tightly.

At first, Erik was lost in their actions, completely overwhelmed by their delighted affection. After all, the last time they had seen him, they'd seen his face. But they did not leave him, and it took only moments for him to wrap his arms around them and return their hugs.

Only Sam stood back at Christine's side, his face guarded. "You left us on our own."

"No," Erik replied, opening his arm for him, "I left them in your care. And you kept them safe, just as I knew you would."

Christine saw the boy's chest expand at Erik's justification. A smile tugged at his lips. Mollified, he rushed to Erik and hugged him tight. Erik rested his hand on Sam's hair and kissed his brow.

Christine dared to speak, "We'd like to talk with you all about something important." The children pulled their gaze to her, though they did not move from Erik's side. She cleared her throat. "Mr. Y and I… well, we know we can never take the place of your real mommas and papas," the confusion on Erik's face turned to awe before her eyes, "but we would love you and protect you." He would not remove his gaze from her, terrified that the children would reject him. "And we would like to be your parents."

"Parents?" Sarah repeated.

"You want to be our parents?" Elijah asked.

Charlotte crawled up into Erik's lap.

It was Sam who rushed to her side and wrapped his arms around her. "That's how it works right? If you stay, I stay?"

The tension in her body eased at his hug and she held him in her arms. "That's right," she spoke against his ear.

Charlotte gasped, "That means I can call you papa and momma?" Her little hands held Erik's face in them, his mask lifting slightly from his skin at the pressure. She looked into this eyes with smiling adoration.

Erik's laugh filled the room, "Yes, my dear, you can." At his answer, she giggled, and nuzzled into his neck for a hug.

"I have a momma and a pappa."

In unison, the older children agreed, "Yes."

Christine's chest hurt with all her joy – so much it would never again be all contained inside her person. Happy tears, for the first time in so long, feel freely down her cheeks and she didn't care at all to wipe them away.