Madame Giry didn't even notice the envelope that was in the stack with all the others, never gave a second thought to where it might have come from or if the handwriting looked dreadfully familiar.

She glanced at it - it was addressed to Christine.

It wasn't so unusual, Christine often got letters. She set it aside and continued sorting through the mail. The task of delivering that particular letter was assigned to her daughter, who held it one hand and knocked on Christine's dormitory door with the other.

"Christine! You got another letter!"

Christine quickly opened her door, interrupting her preparations for her day with Raoul.

"From who?"

Meg shrugged.

"Doesn't say. I bet it's from your Vicomte, though. I bet it's a marriage proposal!" she teased.

Christine wrinkled her nose, but took the letter. Her heart skipped a beat as she looked at it - she recognized the handwriting.

"It's not Raoul's handwriting," she told Meg. "It's probably a fan letter... or a bill."

"It's always bills and never marriage proposals," Meg sighed, before eyeing Christine's hair. "Are you wearing your hair up today?"

She nodded.

"We're going to be seeing Philippe, so yes. I thought it was more... refined," she patted her hair nervously.

"Well I think it looks lovely. Finish getting ready, and I'll see you later, okay?"

Meg took her leave and Christine had barely closed her door before she was quickly opening the envelope.

"Please look in your dressing room before you leave, if you have a moment to spare"

She raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. She finished pinning up her hair before going to look in her dressing room, wondering what he could have left there.

She cautiously opened the door and peeked inside before going in. The room looked the same as always, but the vase she kept on her vanity was now filled with white roses, and in between the blooms was a little card folded in half. She plucked it out and opened it, noticing that none of the roses had any thorns.

There, in that elegant scrawl she knew so well, were two words - simple words, but words that meant the world to her, and she put her hand over her heart as she read them.

I'm sorry

Was he still worried over it? Was he still thinking about what she had told him?

She bit her lip and looked back at the mirror, wondering if he was behind it. She had no way of knowing that he was currently in his home, sitting before his organ as he had been ever since finishing the delivery of the roses and trying to composing something, anything, to take his mind off the boy.

She tucked the note into her pocket and took the vase of roses with her back to her bedroom, placing it on her nightstand. She wouldn't be in her dressing room very much at all the coming week, but in her bedroom she'd see them every night. She lingered over them a moment longer before finishing dressing to meet Raoul.

A mere hour later she stood nervously at the train station. She glanced about at all the people there, some waiting like she was, some hurrying by.

Raoul's train arrived with a hiss and clatter and he was one of the first to come rushing out.

She couldn't help but smile at the determined look on his face as he scanned the station, looking for her. She raised a hand up and waved. He quickly spotted her, a grin breaking out across that face she had missed so much.

He made his way over to her, pushing past the crowd, and when he reached her he threw his arms around her, crushing her to himself. She sighed happily as she leaned into his embrace. He lingered there a moment, letting his eyes slide closed. He inhaled deeply - she smelled of vanilla and roses, and he wished he was able to comb a hand through her hair, but curiously enough, she had worn it up for some reason.

He pulled back, beaming. He missed his family, of course he did, but she was the only one he wanted to greet him at the station and he was so glad she had come. Her expression mirrored his own.

"I've missed you so, Lottie," he said fondly.

"I've missed you too," she gave his shoulders a squeeze. "And to answer the question in your last letter, yes I can spend the week with you. It is the off-season, after all."

"Wonderful!" he cried. "Let's not waste a moment longer!"

They set off, him dragging his suitcase behind him, until they were accosted by a footman with a little carriage sent by Philippe.

"Monsieur le Vicomte, your brother has sent me to escort you back to the de Chagny mansion," he told him with a little bow.

Raoul handed him his suitcase.

"Here," he said. "You can take this back for me. But tell Philippe that I am currently busy seeing the grand Parisian sights with an even grander lady, and will not be returning just yet."

Christine blushed prettily at his words and he grinned.

"And tell him that we will both back for dinner!" he added, and Christine's eyes widened.

The footman hesitated, as Raoul's orders were different than the orders from Philippe, but he nodded and took the suitcase.

"Oh, Raoul," Christine said as the carriage drove off. "Are you very certain that you want me to accompany you at dinner? I thought I would merely be spending the afternoon with you and then taking my leave once you were back home. Are you sure you don't want dinner to be just you and your family?"

"You are like family to me, Christine," he glanced at her, a brief look of concern sweeping across his face. "No one is going to change my mind on that."

He reached his hand out to take hers, squeezing it reassuringly, his smile returning.

"Of course I want you beside me at dinner."

She sighed a little, but she was smiling as well.

"If you're very certain, I suppose. But remember we have the whole week, I cleared my entire schedule beyond what was required of me at the opera - with that much time together I'm afraid you'll get bored of me!" she teased him.

He looked her up and down, his fingers carding through her own.

"I could never be bored of you - never," he said in a solemn voice.

She looked away, a blush creeping across her cheeks. Her hand felt hot in his grip, and she didn't think it was purely her imagination that people were giving glances in their direction, but instead of pulling away she squeezed her fingers around his a little tighter. And why shouldn't she? They weren't doing anything wrong. They had often walked hand in hand as children. If such a gesture took on a different meaning now that they were both adults, well, that could hardly be helped.

They stopped in an ice cream parlor and settled themselves at a little table in the corner where they could have some privacy. They discussed his latest adventures and how his training was going, and then she filled him in on what was going on at the opera.

"You don't have to stay for dinner if you don't want," he said suddenly, looking at her a little guiltily. "I know I didn't ask you if you wanted to before I sent word to Philippe."

She dug a little hole in the round ball of ice cream, then mashed the removed piece against the side of her dish, watching as it melted.

"I do want to have dinner with you," she said truthfully, keeping her eyes on her dish. "But do you think Philippe wants to have dinner with me?"

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.

"I don't care what Philippe wants, I only care what you want."

She looked up at him, her lips quirking in a smile.

"How scandalous," she whispered, and the words brought a small smile to his lips as well.

He leaned in conspiratorially.

"I'll tell you what's really scandalous, Lottie," his eyes sparkled with mischief.

She narrowed her eyes at him, her smile growing wider.

"What?"

"We could run away together."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. We could buy a boat and sail away together."

"Where would we go?"

"Anywhere. North. To Sweden."

"Oh?"

"We could go to Sweden, and start a new life. No one would know who we are. We could just leave all this behind - all the judgement, all the expectations, all of it."

She took a bite of the ice cream, letting the spoon linger in her mouth a moment, savoring the feel of the cold steel contrasted with the taste of sweetened cream as it melted across her tongue. She knew his words were merely little jokes, but she knew also that it was entirely possible - he knew how to sail, how to navigate. He certainly had enough money to buy a boat. Sweden. The North. She shivered.

She met his gaze and saw that beneath his usual mirth that there was a vulnerability, too - perhaps these weren't just jokes after all. Her heart beat faster. What would it be like to see her native land again, she wondered.

She took the spoon out of her mouth.

"What do you think of that, Lottie?"

"Hmm... When would we embark on this daring escape?"

"Tonight - right now even! There's nothing stopping us," his tone was fierce, serious, and she had no doubt that if she said yes, he would march to the docks that very moment and procure a boat for them.

"Raoul, my silly darling, we can't possibly go tonight - you've already told Philippe we're coming over for dinner."

His face had fallen when she refused, only to pick up again when he realized she was joking with him.

"But Christine - don't you see? That's the best part about leaving tonight! Just picture Philippe waiting for us!"

He mimed pulling out a pocket watch and tutted at it, adopting the affected voice and mannerisms of his older brother.

"What's going on? What's this all about?" he said in a near perfect mimicry of Philippe. "These youths are at it again! No respect at all!"

Christine burst out in laughter, letting her spoon clatter into her dish as she covered her face with her hands.

"But don't you want one last French meal before we go North?"

He considered this.

"A woman after my own heart," he sighed dreamily, and she giggled. "Alright, we can go tomorrow morning... after breakfast, of course."

"You don't even speak Swedish," she pointed out.

"Well, no, but you do."

She rested an elbow on the table and propped her chin on her hand. He was unflappable.

"You'd rely on me to do everything? You'd trust me like that? I would be the one making all the decisions about everything."

"Of course I'd trust you like that. Besides, you could teach me Swedish. I'm sure I could learn eventually, you know."

Christine pushed the rest of her ice cream around her dish, a little flustered by the conversation. It was all entirely plausible. They could actually do it, if they wished to. He seemed to want to. Did she want to?

She missed Sweden. She hadn't been there since she was a little girl. She missed it, and the offer to see it again was sorely tempting. But she knew without doubt that if she left Paris for good, she would miss it too.

She stirred the now melted ice cream a little faster, two different flavors mixing together until she couldn't tell one from the other.

She had lived the majority of her life away from her home. Home. The word sounded odd and strange, the way all the French words had at first, so confusing and different from her easy Swedish that flowed from her mind like water in a river. Was Sweden really home? Could it be her home, if she gave it the chance? Would France ever feel like home? She had lived there far longer than she'd lived in Sweden, and it still didn't feel home. Maybe no place would ever feel that way to her.

She frowned down at the muddled cream in her bowl, tasting a spoonful of it just to know what her efforts had produced.

She missed Sweden and she'd miss France. Was it possible to love two places at the same time? How could someone live like that, constantly missing one or the other? She couldn't have both.

She looked up at Raoul and thought of her singing career, of Erik, and sighed. No, she couldn't have both.

Raoul raised an eyebrow at her dish of mixed and melted ice cream.

"Is it good like that?" he asked, curious, and began to mix his own.

She chuckled and shook her head.

"It's awful. Really terrible."

"Oh."

He didn't bring up the subject of running away again. As much as he wished it were possible, he knew she wanted to remain at the Opera Populaire until her career had taken off - it would be a hassle and a struggle to get started at a new company currently. Once she had leading roles under her belt, then she could apply for more positions with a greater likelihood of receiving them. Perhaps one day they could go to Sweden, but not today. He steeled his resolve - no one would make them feel badly about the time they spent together, not the other noble families, not the gossipers at the theater, not even his own brother. As long as Christine was happy to be in his company, no one else's opinion mattered.

After the ice cream parlor they went in a few shops, mostly just browsing, but something in one of the stores caught Christine's eye.

It was in the antique shop, a place filled with numerous curiosities to marvel over, that she saw it - a little harp of sorts, small enough to be held in both hands, with rusting wires and an intricately carved frame. She picked it up, and upon examining it she discovered that the carvings on the sides were in fact little winged figures - angels.

Raoul watched her from behind another tall shelf of odds and ends. She was so lovely, more lovely than he remembered, if he was being truthful with himself. He watched as she looked through the organized clutter on the shelves, stopping on one item in particular. Her smile lit up her face as she looked closely at the strange object, and Raoul felt his heart twist. Her smile was so beautiful. She should always be smiling, should always have reason to smile. One day, if she let him, he'd devote his entire life to her happiness.

"What did you find?" he asked, walking up next to her.

She jumped a little, as though she'd forgotten he was in the store with her.

"Oh! It's a harp, you see. I think I'm going to buy it," she glanced shyly away from him, clutching the harp to her chest.

Did that little harp really make her so happy? He smiled.

"Here, let me buy it for you," he offered.

"Oh, Raoul, no! Really, it's alright," she shook her head.

"Are you certain? Let it be my gift you."

"I can quite afford it, it's alright," she insisted.

"You don't want a gift from your dear Raoul?" he teased.

She squirmed a little, shifting from foot to foot, her smile turning odd.

"It's- it's not for me, that's why," she finally told him.

"Ah, I see. And whom is so lucky as to receive a gift from Christine Daaé, if I may ask?"

She glanced up at him. He looked simply curious - had he looked jealous she wouldn't have told him at all.

"My voice teacher," she looked away again, her face turning pink.

"Oh, I'm glad to hear you found one to work with," he remarked as they made their way to the front of the store to pay for the harp. "Where did you find this one?"

"Um," she bit her lip, digging in her purse for the money to pay. "Well, you see..."

She received her change and thanked the shopkeeper, holding the harp tightly as they walked out the door.

"It's actually the same tutor I've been working with all along, you know," she couldn't look at him.

His face went blank. He remembered that day she had cried on his shoulder, heartbroken over her supposed angel.

"You're still working with that cad?"

"Raoul!" she finally turned to him, dismayed. "He's not a cad! I know he lied to me terribly, but that's all in the past now. He's a good man."

She paused.

"At least, he's good to me," she added softly.

She didn't know if Erik could truly be considered a good man, but although they had their occasional disagreements, he had never given her reason to worry for her safety in his presence and he really was good to her.

"Well, do you suppose I could meet him?" he asked hopefully.

She hugged the harp and looked away, her countenance troubled.

"No, Raoul, I'm sorry but that's just not possible."

"Why not?"

"He's- he's a bit reclusive, you see..." she tried to figure out how explain it to him without giving away more than Erik would want her to, but then she realized there might not be any other way around it.

"He's, ah, he's terribly disfigured," she added quietly, hoping Raoul wouldn't ask her for any more details past that.

"Oh," he breathed. "Oh, I understand, I think. Well, I won't press the matter, then."

"Thank you."

"If ever there comes a day you change your mind about him, though-"

"I know, Raoul - I'll let you know," she smiled a little, touched that he was so concerned over her wellbeing.

They walked in comfortable silence for a while, and Christine became lost in her own thoughts. She let one hand drop from the harp and stray to her pocket, where she grasped at the little card that was still there. Erik certainly wasn't perfect, but he was trying to be better, she could tell that. Still, the strangeness of how he had acted weighed on her.

Why, after she had just finished telling him about a morning spent with friends, would he become so upset about her spending time with another friend? If she didn't know any better, she'd say he had been jealous of Raoul. But why on earth would he be jealous? He wasn't jealous of any of her other friends... Except...

Except all of her other friends were girls.

She swallowed, finding her throat was feeling a little too dry. Was he jealous of Raoul because he was interested in her? Oh, no - no, it couldn't be that, could it? He'd never given any other indication that he felt that way about her. This was self-flattery, surely - Erik couldn't be interested in her like that. The man was a genius, after all, and while Christine didn't think herself dull, well- she certainly didn't expect a genius to be romantically interested in her. Still... he was lonely. It might not be too far fetched to assume he held some sort of feeling towards her - not love, not necessarily, but merely an intense interest in her or a close kinship perhaps. He was probably worried that if she spent too much time around boys she'd get distracted from her goals and then he'd no longer have a student to teach anymore. She smirked a little. He had nothing to worry about there.

Anyway, if he felt something for her, it couldn't be helped. He hadn't come out and said anything, hadn't done anything (other than his outburst) to make her think he was interested, certainly hadn't seemed to think anything was owed to him. There was nothing she could do about it until he saw fit to confess how he truly felt. Until then- well, things would just go on normally, she supposed.

Christine asked to take the harp back to the opera house, and Raoul called them a cab so they wouldn't have to walk. They spoke of more pleasant subjects on the ride over, and once there Raoul loitered around in the lobby while Christine went up to her dormitory.

She placed the harp on her nightstand next to the roses - she would give it to Erik when she saw him next week. Then she dropped to her knees and pulled a small parcel out from under her bed, wiping the dust off of it before tucking it under her arm and setting off for the lobby once more.

Underneath the ground, Erik stood up from the organ bench and rubbed at his eyes, which felt dry and irritated. He supposed it was because he hadn't slept at all the previous two nights, nor had he had any naps in between. He sighed heavily and walked into his kitchen, intending on making a cup of tea.

He opened the cupboard and made a discovery. He was out of groceries.

The lack of food didn't disturb him too terribly, he knew he could sneak up and steal a few things here and there from the opera house kitchens. What disturbed him was the fact that he was practically out of tea. That simply wouldn't do.

In all the fuss of the day before, he had entirely forgotten to leave a grocery list in the alley on the Rue Scribe side of the building - his typical method for procuring sustenance. Without a list of what to buy and a little envelope of money, the beggar that he paid to shop for him wouldn't have bought him anything and also wouldn't be back until next week to look for another envelope and list.

Erik's heart dropped. He would have to go to the market himself if he wanted anything. He couldn't really go without tea - he hated drinking plain water and often it was the only thing close to a meal he'd have, not to mention it helped keep him awake lest nightmares set in.

He set about dressing to go above, muttering to himself. He hated going outside, but it seemed it couldn't be helped. The opera kitchens didn't even keep tea.

He pulled his hat down as far as it could go before stepping out into the garish late afternoon sunlight, his heart beating in that funny way he hated, high in his throat and far too fast and off tempo.

He was coming around the front corner of the building, trying to blend in with the scant amount of people still milling about when he saw the two of them.