Sleep was an elusive thing that night; Christine could not get comfortable. One minute, she was too hot, the next, too cold. When she did manage to fall asleep, she dreamed of Raoul. He was always just out of reach, leaving her frustrated and sad. It was as if he had become a ghost, and no matter how she tried, she could not grasp him. If he dreamed of her, she hoped his dreams were more pleasant than hers. Every night, she prayed that she reached him in his sleep, to say that she loved him and missed him.

Before they had been reunited, she had often daydreamed about the time they had spent together - innocent recollections of the childhood friend she thought she'd lost. She was a grown woman now, twenty-one years old, and she had experienced too much for daydreams to suffice. She needed to see his face, to hear his voice, to feel him, warm and solid beside her. She needed to touch him, to be touched by him. The vague frustration she had felt from time to time before marriage was now a clearly defined desire, and on nights like this one, it taunted her. She made a point of keeping her hands above her covers, and close to her face so she wouldn't be tempted to let them wander. What would the Angel say if he knew what she was thinking of doing? If it weren't for her appointment with him in the morning, she would have given up on sleep, and read a book.

"Restless night, my dear?" The Angel asked.

"Is it that obvious?" Christine peered into the mirror, trying to pinch some color into her pallid cheeks.

"Only to me," he replied with fondness in his voice. "I see you more clearly than others, but rest assured you are lovely as always."

"Thank you," she replied. She was never quite certain how to respond when someone complimented her looks. She knew she was pretty, but she did not view it as an accomplishment deserving of praise.

There was an awkward silence for a moment, and Christine was on the verge of asking to begin their lesson, when the Angel spoke again. "You don't speak of him as often as you did, but you still miss him very much, don't you?"

She thought she detected a hint of jealousy in his voice, but perhaps she was reading something into his words that was not there - applying a human emotion to try to make sense of a being she could not possibly understand. "Yes," she answered, "I will miss him until he's home safely with me."

"I know I told you to use music as a balm for your pain, and in the beginning, I know that was all it was to you. Tell me truthfully, is music - am I - still nothing more than something to occupy your mind?"

Now she was certain she detected jealousy in voice, as well as sorrow. She did not know why he had decided to pursue this line of questioning, but she could not fault him for it. No one would want to be reduced to being nothing more than a distraction. Christine wished to be honest with him, so she pondered his question before answering. As much as her lessons had become her saving grace, as dear as the Angel was to her, was he ultimately only filling the space Raoul had left in her life? Though her dreams of being Raoul's wife and the mother of his children had not changed, singing felt like more than just the distraction it had been. Instead of a short lived career being something to keep her busy until she could be a proper wife, it was now something she would be loathe to leave. Well, at least the music aspect of it... She could have done without the speculation surrounding her, and the developing rivalry with Carlotta. She carefully explained her thoughts to the Angel.

"Unfortunately," the Angel said, "There's not much to be done about speculation and rivalry. There will always be people who gossip, and there will always be people like Carlotta in the world."

"I know," she agreed, with a small smile. "My father always said that I should only worry about what I do, how I behave, because there is nothing to be done about other people."

"He was right. If music is your motivation, if you love music - if you love me - the rest won't matter." He spoke with such passion, and his voice held such beauty, that she would have agreed with anything he said at that point.

"Oh, I do. I don't know what I would have done without you." And it was true. As she loved her dead father, as she loved music for his sake, she loved the Angel.

Someone, in the guise of the Opera Ghost, was sending La Carlotta threatening notes. Naturally, she had jumped to the conclusion that it must be Christine, or some friend of hers. Opening night was almost upon them, and Christine was completely miserable. She had no idea who would threaten Carlotta, but she had to admit she understood why Carlotta suspected her.

"Who would do such a thing?" She asked the Angel, fighting tears. "Not only to her, but to me? I always try to be kind to everyone. Why would anyone want to make Carlotta think I was threatening her? Whoever is doing this must have known that she would suspect me."

"Are you sure she isn't sending these notes herself?" The Angel inquired.

"Why would she ever do that?" The idea that anyone would manufacture such a scenario just to get at someone else seemed beyond all understanding to Christine.

"To make herself look like a victim... To have something with which to accuse you, when all she had before was your superiority."

"No... I cannot believe it of her. She is not, perhaps, the nicest person, but she isn't that evil," Christine reasoned.

"You mean she isn't that clever," the Angel countered, amusement hovering at the edge of his voice.

Sorrow, shock, and something approaching anger met in a sob that escaped Christine's throat. "It isn't funny," she choked before dissolving into tears.

"Hush, my child," the Angel whispered into her ear, all his mirth having disappeared. "I did not mean to upset you. It's only that this all seems rather ridiculous to me, but clearly it is not to you."

"No, it is not," she replied, struggling to understand how this situation could possibly amuse him. "What do I do?" She wrapped her arms around herself.

"You hold your head high, and go on, because you know you did nothing wrong," his voice was like a loving hand stroking her hair, but it did not stop her tears. "You must stop crying, dearest," he continued gently. "You won't be able to sing if you keep this up."

Christine nodded and sniffed. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry... It's just... It's just that I wish you were here with me."

"I am right here," the Angel reassured her.

"I know..." There were times, like this one, where a voice was not enough. She wanted a hand to hold, a friend to sit beside her. When she was a child, she'd felt so safe with her father, and she was sure she could recreate that feeling with the Angel, if only he had a physical form. "I only wish I could touch you."

The Angel said nothing, and Christine began to sob afresh. She must have said the wrong thing, and now she had lost him. "Angel?" She asked after several more minutes of his silence and her sobbing.

"I'm here," he answered quietly.

"I thought you'd gone... I shouldn't have said that."

"No, Christine... It is only that I don't know what to say."

"I knew that was too far," she said, internally cursing herself. "I'm sorry."

"There's no need to apologize. You said nothing wrong; I know it was meant innocently."

She swayed on her feet and caught herself against the edge of her vanity. She only just realized how her words might gave been interpreted.

"You've allowed yourself to become far to upset over nothing," the Angel scolded mildly. "Sit down and calm yourself."

She sat down and struggled to obey the latter command.

"Listen to me. Anyone with an ounce of sense knows that you could not be behind this. If Carlotta actually believes it was you, then she is a fool, as is anyone who listens to her. Foolish people are not worth your trouble. As for the other, there is nothing wrong with not wanting to be lonely. Knowing you, I knew precisely what you meant." His voice was firm, but not angry. "Now you must stop crying; It pains me to see you so upset."

As she lay in bed that night, Christine comforted herself with the Angel's words. He was right, of course; no one who knew her at all would ever think her capable of sending threatening notes. The situation would soon resolve itself somehow, and she would be protected by the truth of her own innocence.

She drifted on the edge of sleep rather quickly, exhausted from too much crying during the day. At the moment she should have given into it completely, she heard the slightest sound, almost like someone taking a breath. It was most likely nothing, but she opened her eyes, sat up, and peered around her bedroom just to be certain.

"Angel?" she asked, feeling slightly ridiculous, even though that was the only potential culprit that made sense to her.

Seeing nothing, and receiving no response, she lay down. Likely, she had only begun to dream, and the sound was something akin to the sensation of falling that occasionally woke her when she first began to sleep. Still, she drew her covers closer and shivered.

It was some time before she finally fell asleep, and that only seemed to last a moment. Suddenly, something was pressed over her mouth and nose, and something else lay across her chest and pinned her arms down, effectively restraining her. She knew this was no dream, and her eyes flew open. The being that held her down was dressed entirely in black, including a mask that covered its face - a face close enough to her own that she could see its eyes when they caught the faint light emanating from a street lamp. When it shifted slightly, those eyes glowed in the darkness like a cat's. For the first instant she had been too shocked to move, but seeing those strange eyes awoke her survival instinct, and she began to fight, thrashing wildly. The hand over her mouth prevented her from screaming, and no amount of movement was able to break her free of the grip that held her. Whatever it was, it was far too strong for her. Her breath came in panicked gasps, a strange sweet smell and taste, with underlying hints of something rotting filled up her mouth and nose. She thought she might be sick, but she couldn't stop herself from hyperventilating, from breathing in more and more of whatever substance was on the rag. She was going to die. Tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes. Raoul would come home, only to find that she was dead. What would that do to him? And poor Mamma would be devastated. And the Angel? If she could cry out for him, perhaps he would hear her, but she could not. Internally, she begged God to send someone to save her. She couldn't die like this - murdered in her own bed by an unknown assailant.

Then, the strangest thing happened, the man - for she had concluded that her attacker was a man - shushed her with the sort of tenderness one would expect to hear from a mother quieting a crying baby. For what seemed like hours, but she knew was only a span of several minutes, he half-lay on top of her, forcing her to inhale some sickening substance, while gently, wordlessly trying to soothe her. After she could no longer move, but before she lost consciousness, his weight disappeared from her chest, and icy cold fingers, fingers that trembled ever so slightly, smoothed her hair back from her forehead.

Note: I'm posting this chapter from my phone (We just moved and we have no internet), so any random letters can probably be blamed on that. Thanks for the reviews, I appreciate it as always.