Chapter 35

It might have been better

not to mingle at the festivities!

- Romeo et Juliette, Act I

Christine followed Meg's outstretched finger with her eyes and saw Erik.

He had been cornered next to the stairs by a stunning redheaded woman in a seductive black velvet gown. She was flirting with him efficiently, one hand stroking his shoulder and the other rested against his shirtfront. He looked surprised, alarmed, suspicious, disbelieving, uncertain, and, to some extent, thrilled (she could hardly blame him for that; she would have been thrilled, as well, had such a magnificent creature taken notice of her)- but most of all terrified.

He was trying to stammer out some excuse, but the girl was clearly determined.

"I know her," Meg said with a sneer. "That's Cerise Bourgeron. She dyes her hair, you know. She's really a mousy little-"

"-How did this come about?" Christine said.

"He was looking for you and she pounced on him." Meg took a gulp of champagne. "It's quite entertaining, really. Don't worry - it seems quite harmless, or I would have shoved her down the stairs long ago."

"Thank you," Christine said, managing a smile.

However, inwardly she felt she could not be so certain this would end harmlessly. She watched Erik anxiously. What did the creature want from him - did she think he was rich? Or had she been admiring him, as Meg had, and no doubt supposed that he was like any other partygoer and a handsome face lay beneath his mask?

"I suppose he's frightfully good-looking?" Meg said, as though she'd read her thoughts.

Christine jumped, startled. "No," she said after a moment. "Not at all."

Meg laughed. "You don't think him handsome? Your fiancé? I thought you were head-over-heels in love with him."

"I think him the most beautiful man in the world - but he would be very annoyed with me indeed if I called him handsome. He would know it is not true."

"Hm." Meg looked surprised. "Well."

"How long has she been there?" Christine asked Meg after moment. "That girl? Cerise what's-her-name?"

"Oh, I don't know. Are you going to do anything about it, or shall you let it go on?" Meg asked with interest, as though they were at the theater watching a farce by Eugène Labiche. Any moment now she was going to pull out a bag of peanuts like they were in a balcony seat at the Folies-Bergère.

Christine pondered Meg's question. Perhaps this will finally convince him that I am not the only one of the gentler sex who finds him attractive, she thought. Perhaps then he won't be so unsure of me. "I don't see the harm."

"Hmm. Very well." Meg glanced at her uncertainly.

For a few moments, they stood in silence.

"How can she fall all over him like that?" Christine said suddenly, startling herself.

"It is New Years' Eve in Paris and she has had one too many." Meg smiled, eyeing her knowingly. "He looks terrified, poor fellow. Hasn't he ever been touched by a woman before? You ought to go rescue him."

"I cannot," Christine said, her eyes glued to Erik.

"What?"

"Much as I should like to, people cannot know he and I are a couple - think of the scandal for me. You go. Pry them apart somehow."

"I think you're jealous," Meg said.

Christine looked over at her in astonishment. "How perfectly absurd. A jealous woman would have gone over there and taken his arm."

"A woman who was a little jealous might. A woman who was truly jealous would continue to watch from a distance, as you are doing."

Christine felt her face go red. "Am I so mean as that?"

Before Meg could reply, however, something happened.

Christine saw Erik blanch with fear at something the woman said. Undeterred, however, she reached her hand, gloved in black velvet, toward his face.

He sprang back, but the crowd was close around him, and a moment later she'd torn off his mask.

Erik let out a terrified, helpless cry and clamped his hands over his face as though he had been burnt.

The woman let out a piercing shriek as she took in the sight of Erik's twisted features. "It's the Ghost!"

Erik shoved the guests in front of him violently out of the way and sprinted toward the door.

Their were gasps and cries of outrage. Heads began to turn.

"It's the Ghost!" the miserable creature kept shrieking. "It's him! It's true!"

Quiet, girl, Christine thought furiously, turning and running toward Erik.

Their paths crossed as he neared the doors. She caught at his arm as he passed her, trying to reassure him. But when he saw her he shrank away in horror. "No," he cried, ducking his head, trying to hide.

Christine felt an intense stab of pity and sorrow, mingled together with adoration.

She wanted to look away, for his sake, but she could not. She felt frozen, as though she were trapped in amber.

It was the first time since his illness earlier that year that she had seen him without the mask. The first time looking into the face of the man she loved.

Her first thought, difficult to put into words, was something like It's you. That's who has been there all this time. I remember you.

Her second, to wonder what there could possibly be in that face to give such offense that everyone would despise him, mock him, abuse and abandon him as they had. He was the same man she had loved all along.

A moment later, the spell was broken as he broke through what remained of the crowd; in a moment, he was outside. Guests began to pour out the door after him, Christine in their midst.

Shivering at the sudden chill of the last few hours of December, she glanced frantically around for him.

To her horror, he'd been seized by one of the doormen. For a tense moment, they grappled, and then Erik shoved him to the ground with a brute force that startled Christine.

She ran toward him, but as she closed in, he shrank away from her. "What are you looking at, hein, you little bitch?" he snarled.

There were gasps of anger from behind her. Someone grabbed her arm and pulled her back from him.

Christine winced, startled. She knew it was an act, that he had had to do it, but it still startled her.

And she would hardly have blamed him if he had meant it. She had endangered him, endangered them both, by being so careless at a time like this.

And yet how could she have done otherwise? How could she not run to him?

That was the cruelty of it all.

Taking advantage of her surprise, Erik darted past her and ran down the steps outside the Opéra, taking them three at a time. But at the bottom, instead of running off down the street he turned back to the building, as though some enchantment bound him to it.

Grabbing on to the fluted stonework, he leapt up the side.

Christine shook off whoever had held her back and darted forward. She watched with the rest of the crowd as he began to scale the walls like a panther on a cliff.

Soon he was high off the ground, twenty feet, thirty feet.

Christine was suddenly seized by despair. How could escape this?

The surface was never meant to be climbed. About halfway up he slipped, and suddenly he was hanging, trembling, by just a few fingers.

His feet scrambled to find footing, but could not gain purchase. At last he ceased struggling.

No way to go further up. The only way was back down.

But he did not climb down. He leapt.

His body seemed to hang suspended in the air for a moment, and then it plummeted with sickening speed.

A scream spilled out of Christine's mouth.

And then suddenly his hands shot out and grabbed on to a groove in the stonework. His fall stopped abruptly.

Christine let out a gasp of mingled relief and horror. It had been the single most horrible moment of her life. Worse, even, than when her father was dying - at least she had known that was coming, and it had not been sudden and violent, as she had always feared in her heart of hearts that Erik's death would be.

And yet, he continued to climb, til he was only a blurred shape in the darkness, half-obscured by the haze of the gaslamps below.

Once, when Christine found she could not bear to look, she turned her head away - but the sight of the faces around her sickened her just as much - some eager, a few concerned, but all of them disgusted and frightened.

It was horrible to be only a part of the gawking crowd, pretending Erik met as little to her as to anyone else. She longed to rush forward, but she had to continue to act as though she were afraid of him. No role could prepare her for a grand, all-encompassing, deception like this.

She looked back up, tears in her eyes.

"He has escaped worse than this," a voice suddenly said from beside her, just as she thought she could bear no more.

Startled, she glanced over and saw Madame Giry standing beside her.

It was a comfort to know someone else in the crowd was concerned for him too.

Putting aside their disagreements for the time being, she put her arm around her, and Christine accepted, leaning her weight into her, drawing strength from her.

For now, they were united in their wish for Erik's safety.

At last, after what seemed like hours, Erik cleared the roof.

Immediately, Christine turned and ran inside. There was nowhere to go from the roof except down, back into the opera house. He may have escaped a fall, but he was far from being out of danger.

He ought to have run away. She could not imagine how he could make it all the way back down to the cellars and to safety before someone caught him. At best he would have only a few moments' head start. Dozens of people had seen him climb up there. They all knew he must be here somewhere. He was all but trapped.

Praying that the shock of the guests would paralyze them for a few moments and buy him some time, she tore through the lobby and up one of the patrons' staircase.

The snatches of gossip she heard as she sprinted through the building nauseated her.

"His skin was yellow! Like parchment. Like a leper's."

"No, his eyes were yellow! Like an animal. His flesh was rotting."

"Yes, and his eyes were just horrible black holes in his head, and he had no nose at all!"

Christine dug her fingernails into her palms.

So this was what she was up against; this was the kind of thing Erik had been enduring all his life, and that she was inheriting. Well, damn them - damn them all. She was ready.

As she neared the top floor of the Opéra, high above the auditorium and far away from the lavish entry hall, where the cheapest seats were to be found, a new set of voices caught her attention.

"He must have gone up."

"Yes, there's no other way."

She stopped to catch her breath and listen.

"He'll be here somewhere," the voice continued. And then, "There!"

Christine looked up and saw Erik. He was crouched on a carved stone platform on a bannister at the very top of the staircase, tense and expectant, still looking like a fleeing cat, more animal than human. Ringed around him, though they were standing a few feet back in caution, were several guests.

Christine began to run up the last few stairs toward him.

In the midst of the tension, Firmin suddenly emerged from the auditorium, trailed by one of the peroxide-haired ballet girls he and Andrew had brought in tow. "What's all this?" he said irritably.

Erik sensed his moment. To Christine's horror, he lunged forward and suddenly leapt from the bannister.

A cry of terror leapt from Christine's mouth, a clear, bright, frightened sound that seemed to have a life of its own.

She soon saw that had not jumped without calculation, however. He fell at an angle, and hit the bannister one floor down on the other side. It was a risky maneuver but it succeeded, breaking the force of his fall. With dazzling agility, he shoved his weight off it and launched himself in the other direction, catching himself on the next bannister down. He only paused for a moment before jumping again.

After a moment, Christine understood what he was doing. Soon he was almost back to the first floor, outdistancing them all beyond any hope of their catching up. This was the answer for how he would escape - this mad gamble.

It all happened in an instant.

Everyone upstairs stood frozen except for the blonde, who whipped a derringer out of her bodice and fired it at him with dazzling speed, startling everyone in the room.

Christine gasped.

But it missed widely, and before the girl could get off another shot, Firmin seized her arm. "You'll ruin the stonework, you little fool!" he roared. "Do you really suppose the insurers would pay for that?"

Erik took advantage of the commotion to run down the last flight of stairs and disappear. Christine stood, shaking with relief, wondering whether to follow.

"He is right," said a guest in a cavalier costume, coming forward. "He has not threatened anyone. The only thing he has done that is illegal is climb the building. We cannot shoot him for that."

Christine turned toward this new voice with a growing sense of gratitude. Finally, a person of intelligence!

"Nothing illegal?" Firmin sputtered, his face turning beet-red. "What about trespassing?"

"Do you know he doesn't have an invitation?" the cavalier pointed out.

"Ha! Do you suppose I would have let like a thing like that come to my party?"

Christine stifled a cry of rage.

"This is the most exclusive event of the season! There are aristocrats and royalty here!" Firmin went on. "Besides, we all know it was the Phantom! Or do you suppose there are two fools with a face like that running around Chaussée d'Antin? He dropped that backdrop on our soprano - I told you fools about that months ago."

"And you told us that was an accident and you did not want us to look into it any further," the man replied mildly.

With a chill, Christine realized this must be an officer in disguise.

"We shall have to arrest him and question him properly," he went on. "Don't worry - he will not leave this building. My men are stationed at every exit."

Christine's heart began to pound. Erik did not know about this. She must get away; she must find him before anyone else did and warn him. She began looking about frantically for some way to depart unseen - the managers hadn't seemed to notice she was here, but she didn't want to take any chances. At last, she remembered there was another way to leave.

There was a service staircase not far from here, its door carefully disguised to look like a part of the elegantly decorated walls. There was no chance whatsoever that men like Andre and Firmin knew about any of them- they seemed to be permanently under the impression that the servants who cleaned the opera house came and went by magic.

Perhaps they might be interested in knowing about this one - but that did not mean she had to tell them, she thought with a smile.

Happily, the officer had not seen her - he was still engrossed in arguing with the managers - and the others were all still staring dumbly down the shaft of the staircase.

When Christine had satisfied herself that none of them were paying her any mind, she opened the door, slipped through, and swiftly shoved it closed behind her.

Inside, it was dim, lit only by a few flickering gaslamps.

Immediately she began to sprint down the barren concrete steps. These did not loop around elegantly, taking their time in descent, like the patrons' staircases. Here, each flight turned sharply onto the next, brisk and businesslike, so the journey was swift.

Hand on the bannister, she watched her feet closely so as not to miss a step. They turned to a blur as she gathered speed. Her thoughts whirled around and around like the staircase.

Meg was right. If she had not been selfish and jealous and petty this would never have happened.

Lost in her regrets, she ceased to see the world around her and soon all but forgot where she was.

Soon she found herself in the underground levels beneath the stage, where lay all the ugly parts of the opera house, all its secrets.

She reached the end of the staircase abruptly, emerging into startling silence and utter darkness. There was no sign of any of the guests, which she was glad about, but there was no sign of Erik either. Even if she was correct and he had come this way, how on earth was she to find him in a labyrinth like this? She thought about calling his name, but it seemed unwise.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Fumbling in the blackness, she took a book of matches out of the chic little bejeweled metal handbag hanging from her arm - a gift from Erik - broke one off, and clumsily struck it, hoping she wouldn't singe her fingers.

To her relief, a study little flame leapt up at once, filling the passage around her with a faltering orange light. The effect was unnerving, as though she were traversing one of the outer circles of hell. Still, there was no time to hesitate. The light wouldn't last long. She quickly started forward.

No sooner had she begun to move, however, than the flame suddenly spluttered out and a hand seized her arm and pulled her around a corner.

Chapter 35 to be continued below. Thank you so much for reading! Thank you to pinkdynamite, WraithSnakeZenith, Marzz, LadyMyth, Jeannie Kaulitz, Witzendwander723, Charlotte, and Comical Freaka for your thoughtful reviews! They mean the world to me. Thank you Crystal for your continued support and encouragement!

Christine's nerves were strained to breaking. With a scream of mingled fear of anger, she swung back her free arm and slammed her handbag into her assailant's face.

"Oh! God in Heaven!" he cried in obvious pain, but he did not break his grip.

She pulled back her arm to try again.

"No, Christine!" came the voice, and all of a sudden she recognized it as Erik's. "Wait!"

"Oh!" she cried in horror. "Mon cœur! I am wretchedly sorry!"

"You should be very proud," he whimpered, in a voice half of pain and half of admiration. "Well done."

"Forgive me! I am so terribly sorry. What an evening this has been for you!" She tried to throw her arms around him, but he pulled away. She settled for taking one of his hands. "Are you well? Are you safe? I am so very glad to see you!"

"There is no need to apologize," he said. "I bought that bag for you on purpose."

"What?"

"You would not take the pistol. I had to give you something to defend yourself with."

"Erik!"

"Forgive me; I did not mean to frighten you. I merely wanted to get you out of the way before someone saw you. I was not thinking." He sounded utterly miserable, and - what was entirely unprecedented with him - as though he had no idea what to do next.

"Are you safe?" she asked. "Is anyone following you?"

"I... do not know. I do not believe so."

She put a hand toward his face. "Can we not have light? Let me look."

"No."

"Have I hurt you badly?"

"No. It will pass. Besides, I daresay I deserve it." He pulled away.

"What?" she said. "Whatever for? Because you called me... that word? I know you did not mean it."

He winced at the recollection. "Well... yes, that as well, of course... But it is not only that... Christine... Christine... I have every obligation to protect you from all that is foul and evil in the world, and the very worst thing of all, I did not- I let you be tainted..."

"What are you talking of?" she said.

"You should not have had to look upon such a..."

"What?"

"You saw," he moaned wretchedly, his voice breaking. "I am ashamed. I have failed you. After all you have done for me, to let such a thing happen - this is how I repay you-"

Suddenly Christine understood. "-Why... but... Why should I be sorry to look upon the face of the man I love?"

"You do not seem to understand! It is an abomination!"

"There isn't time for this," she said frantically; he was beginning to shout and it made her terrified they would be caught. "Listen - I must tell you - There is a gendarme here."

He was still far away from her. "There are several," he said, tired and miserable and indifferent.

"But you see, their captain says he has men stationed at every exit."

Slowly he began to come round. "Oh."

"I daresay they will look into this, and their captain - he seems cleverer than the rest." She startled herself by suddenly having to choke back a sob. "This is all my fault."

Immediately his voice grew softer. Her distress made him forget his for a moment. "How in Heaven's name do you suppose that?"

"I saw that woman flirting with you."

"Oh? Yes, she was a peculiar creature," he said. "I cannot imagine what came over her. One can only suppose she was under the influence of a hallucinogen."

You have misapprehended the whole situation, Christine thought, feeling guiltier than ever. "I should have come over and rescued you. But I did not, because I was jealous."

"Jealous, Christine?" he echoed, as though this were entirely unexpected.

She mistook his tone. "Yes," she said, her stomach churning with shame. "It was paltry and mean and little of me - forgive me-"

He stood frozen.

Her eyes had begun to adjust to the dark, but still she could not make out his expression. "Erik?" she said in an agony of apprehension. "Erik, what is it?"

"-Christine Daae was jealous over me?" he said after a moment. "Hmh! Well!" There was no mistaking his tone now. He was not angry; he was thrilled.

She could see already that they were not going to have a fight.

"Yes," she said, relieved but still bewildered. "Of course I was - I am your fiancée!"

Erik suddenly looked up toward the ceiling.

A moment later Christine noticed that the rafters had begun to creak; she could hear footsteps on the floor above them.

"Listen, you must let me help you," she said. "Tell me how I can be of assistance."

He thought for a moment. "If you go back in that direction, you may delay them for awhile," he said, putting a hand on her arm. "Tell them I went in a different direction. Something of the kind. Nothing that will get you in any trouble, however. That is essential, Christine."

"Yes. Very well." She paused. "When shall I see you?"

The question seemed to spin ominously in the air in front of them, the answer hanging over them like a suspended blade.

"I shall send word when I am safe. I hope I shall see you again before this, but if not: two weeks before March the thirtieth," he promised. "We shall meet at the church to have the banns posted."

"Yes." Christine swallowed. Two months was an agony - a chasm that gaped before her like a vast wound. But their wedding was the best possible thing she could have had to look forward to. She would do anything, endure anything, to see that he was alive for that day.

She had time for a single frantic kiss before he whirled around and darted away.

A moment later, like a shadow, he had disappeared without a trace and she might just as easily have imagined the whole conversation.

Ignoring the sickening wave of sorrow that rose up inside her, she turned back toward the stairs.

As she neared the end of the corridor, she tripped over something lying in the floor.

Gingerly, she picked it up.

Erik's cloak. He must have left it behind in his haste - or perhaps on purpose. She ought to move it elsewhere, to confuse his pursuers.

Or...

An idea began to take shape in her brain.

Erik would have hated it. It certainly didn't fall within the bounds of "nothing that will get you into trouble".

All the more reason for him never to hear about it, then, she thought with a grim smile.

She made for the stairs with renewed eagerness.

Before she reached them, however, she saw someone coming down. By the light he was holding, she could see him though he could not see her.

The police captain.

She choked with fright. Erik was only a few moments ahead.

How fortunate that she was between them.

Heart pounding, she ducked back into the crevice she and Erik had been hiding in a moment ago. Letting his cloak settle about her shoulders, she waited for the officer to draw closer.

She was tall - so tall Madame Giry had had a time fitting her in to the corps de ballet. In her high-heeled boots, she was only a few inches shorter than Erik. And with the voluminous folds of his cloak wrapped around her, even the cleverest of men would not be able to see how much slimmer her silhouette was.

At last he came close enough to see her. She darted out of her hiding-place and began to sprint down the corridor.

"Ah!" cried he, and began to give chase. "Stop!"

Christine ran. She ran blindly, taking turns at random, gripping the walls as she flung herself around corners. She thought only of leading him as far away from Erik's lair - and from Erik - as possible.

The officer was not a young man, and she felt sure she could outrun him.

However, the footsteps behind her never faltered. After moment it struck her that there was another person there as well, younger and swifter. Someone must have been just behind him on the stairs.

A moment later the Comte de Chagny's voice came hurling at her like a lance. "This is not the first time you have threatened Mademoiselle Daae!" he roared.

Threatened me? Christine thought furiously. When has he ever done such a thing?

The policeman finally stopped, wheezing to the Comte to go on ahead. (The police must be in the de Chagnys' pockets, Christine thought. How marvelous.)

He wouldn't be so easy to get rid of. He seemed to have the stamina of a racehorse. He was forty-two, but no doubt he boxed and played polo and hunted grouse on the moors like other men of his class.

It wasn't easy keeping ahead of him.

But she managed it. She was agile from her years in the ballet.

The chase went on for what seemed like hours, through endless twisting corridors, til even Christine, who had virtually grown up here, did not know where they were.

She ran until her throat began to burn and each breath seemed to be torn from her. At last, fearing for her voice, she admitted to herself it was time to end this. She slowed her pace.

The Comte pounced at once. He seized hold of her so tightly she cried out, and shoved her up against a wall. "You!" he cried.

"Don't!" she cried as his hand flew to her throat, passing dangerously close by the hollow where her precious, delicate vocal folds lived.

He froze. "What?" cried he, upon finding that his quarry was not only not the Phantom, but a woman. Then, in tones of the greatest astonishment, "Christine Daae?"

"Monsieur de Chagny!" she cried. "Oh, thank Heaven!"

"Then I have lost him!" he cried. "Of all the damnable- forgive me. Why did you run from me? You heard my voice."

"Because I thought you were he - you were chasing after me! Why?"

"Because I thought the same of you," he said, suspicion in his voice. "What were you doing down here, Mademoiselle?"

She swiftly cast about for an explanation. "I went looking for him," she said at last, realizing with a start that this part of her story was in fact perfectly true.

"What?" he cried.

Christine edged away from him. He frightened her. She hated being alone in the darkness with him like this. "I... I thought perhaps I could reason with him."

"You women!"

"Or if not," she said, "I always carry a dagger."

He struck a match. She winced - she had not expected him to do that. Her eyes adjusted swiftly to the bright new light, and she could only imagine his were doing the same.

He squinted at her.

Mercifully, the cloak looked as though it could have belonged to her; he suspected nothing. Thank Heaven that women borrowing men's styles was in fashion this season.

"This was very foolish of you," he said at last. "Never mind. Come with me; I shall continue my search."

"What?"

"Your presence may in fact prove to be an advantage."

"Oh, I think not," she stammered, fumbling for an excuse.

"We already know the ghost is obsessed with you. If this is indeed the same person who has been sending all those threatening letters, he is bound to be nearby."

That was true, she realized with a chill. It was a comfort to know Erik might be near, but the thought of the Comte having him so close at hand terrified her.

"But I am frightened," she said. "And Madame Giry will be worried for me."

"Madame Giry? What has she to do with it?"

"She brought me up. She is like a mother to me - as a matter of fact, she was engaged to be married to my father, may God rest his soul."*

"The ballet-mistress?" he said in tones of the deepest skepticism.

"Yes," Christine said with a hard edge to her voice.

"Well. Then we should go."

"Yes." She turned back.

"We would not want to keep the ballet-mistress waiting," he muttered.

Christine stamped on his foot in the darkness.

"Oh, forgive me!" she said as he cried out.

"If... you... please, Mademoiselle," he said through gritted teeth, taking hold of her elbow - and he kept her at arm's length as they maneuvered back upstairs.

After a few minutes' searching, she found their way back, and they emerged, blinking, into the ballroom, which was still brightly lit, the party raging on as though nothing had happened. Parisians were eternally unflappable.

However, there were at least two people who looked unsettled. Madame Giry and Meg were sitting fretfully on a secluded bench.

They leapt up as the Comte approached, announcing loudly that "he" had found Christine.

Meg embraced her - a gesture she normally only submitted to when someone's loved one had died. Madame Giry took her hands warmly and kissed her on both cheeks.

"I am well, mère," Christine said. "We are both safe." She raised her eyebrows meaningfully, and she could see that Madame Giry caught the double meaning.

"Thank Heaven," she said. "I thought that horrible man might have carried you off somewhere."

Christine almost laughed.

"Are you well?" Meg demanded.

"Yes, thank you," Christine said automatically, but the words rang hollow.

"I must go," the Comte said. "The police have asked me to assist in their search, and our efforts have already been disrupted for too long." This last with a glare aimed at Christine. Then, with a stiff bow, he turned on his heel and disappeared.

"Go," Christine sneered under her breath, pumping the word so full of venom that Meg laughed.

"Well," she said when he had gone, brushing her hands off on her jacket. "This was an unexpected development."

"What was?" Christine said.

"This whole evening. Erik. Did you know?"

"Do you mean about his face? Of course I knew!" Christine said, irritated partly by the absurd question and partly by her embarrassment that she had seen Erik's face only once - if Meg knew that, she would assuredly think her mad.

"But you are... attracted to him?"

"Very much so."

"Well, then. That's all that matters," Meg said. "It speaks well of you, I suppose."

"I don't know that it does," Christine said. "I fell in love, that is all. It wasn't an act of charity."

Meg didn't seem to hear her. She was staring at the place on the stairs where Erik had been standing when the woman snatched off his mask. "So that's why," she said after a moment.

"What?" Christine said, shaking herself out of her stupor.

"The reason for all of it."

"Oh," Christine said, understanding now. "Yes. In a way, a part of me is glad you know. Now you can understand."

"Yes," Meg said. She paused. "But it seems excessive, don't you think?"

Christine flinched. "What?"

"Hiding away because he imagines everyone will hate him."

Christine's anger flared. "He does not imagine it. He has abundant proof-"

"-I suppose he thinks it justifies blackmail."

"He thinks nothing of the sort." Christine's voice had crescendoed, and she was glad for the hubbub of the party drowning her out.

"He ought to try to make an honest living," Meg said.

"Meg-" Madame Giry said warningly.

But Meg charged on. "How can he know what people will think of him if he will not make an attempt? I call it cowardly of him."

Christine's helpless rage was overwhelming. Madame Giry had never told Meg of her own part in Erik's history, and Christine did not feel comfortable revealing it, for Erik's sake. So she gritted her teeth.

"When he submitted his music they rewarded him handsomely," Meg pointed out.

"That was because it was an anonymous contest. He nearly lost the money because he could not claim it in person."

"No-one was stopping him."

"I suppose you imagine looks have no part in anything," Christine cried. "That is a very convenient position for you to take. Do you suppose you would be a soloist if you were not beautiful? You said yourself Agnès is twice the dancer you are, but she is stuck in the back row because she does not have blonde hair and-"

"-That is the most ridiculous pile of-"

"-Or that the Baron would ever have noticed you?" Christine snapped.

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees.

The instant the words were out of her mouth Christine regretted them. "Meg, forgive me-"

But it was too late. "I think of nothing else," Meg said, eyes blazing. "I must already live with the fear that he will not love me anymore when I am old and ugly, if I am fortunate enough to live that long."

Christine squirmed.

Meg's next words cut her deeply. "But you - do you suppose you would have ever been given a chance to sing so much as a note if you weren't something to look at?" she cried. "And if your father weren't famous?"

The stab of regret Christine had felt disappeared. "My father, as you may recall, Meg, has been dead for thirteen years!" Her voice could have burnt through metal. "I think I may safely say I am no longer riding on his coattails!"

Meg ignored this. "Do you suppose anyone would care to listen to you if you weren't a little piece?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do-"

"-Don't flatter yourself. No-one cares about your talent. What's going to happen to you when you lose your looks? No-one will cast Christine Daae then."

"How can you-"

"-I hope you're careful with your money, because otherwise you'll be penniless by the time you're forty, and that madman certainly won't be able to protect or provide for you!" Meg cried.

Christine froze, dumbstruck with rage. If she had still had her champagne glass, she would have flung it in Meg's face.

"I think we had better go," Madame Giry said after a moment, putting a hand on Meg's arm.

Christine was scarcely less angry than her than with Meg. If you had had the courage to tell your daughter what you know of Erik, she would never have said those things! she thought furiously.

"I think there isn't much more to be said," she agreed at last. Her anger had bypassed the usual stages of shouting and crying; it was so complete that she simply felt nothing. Her whole body had gone cold.

Meg lifted her chin a shade higher. "She may go if she wishes. I have said nothing I need be ashamed of."

Christine dug her fingernails into her palms.

"You have had a difficult evening, my dear," Madame Giry said uncomfortably. "Perhaps you ought to try to rest."

"Rest?" Christine cried. "When I do not know if Erik is- is-" She stifled a sob.

He had been right. She would lose all her allies because of him. They would have to forge ahead alone. Never mind; she was ready.

"But what if he cannot get word to you?" Madame Giry said in a gentle voice. "Do you intend to stay up for days?"

"Yes, if I must," Christine said.

Meg coughed. "Well, don't count on our carriage waiting around for you all night," she threw over her shoulder. "The Baron and I want to go out dancing after we drop Maman home."

"I am reassured to here that is more important to you than finding out whether my fiancé is safe," Christine said.

"You can't suppose I'm going to risk ruining things with the Baron because of Erik's foolishness?" Meg said.

"Then I wish you both a very pleasant evening," Christine snapped.

"This is not to be borne!" Meg cried. She looked to Madame Giry, but her mother's face revealed nothing as she stood awkwardly between the two of them. At least she flung up her arms. "Very well," she said, and she spun on her heel and stormed off through the crowd.

End of Chapter 35. Thank you so much for reading! Thank you so to Comical freaka, olivecspence, mysticalpapaya4, Charlotte, Kate Fellon, Wolfshadow1, pinkdynamite, WraithSnakeZenith, Mars, WitzendWander723, and Lady Myth for your kind reviews. They mean the world to me!

*Note: I don't know why I never thought of this before, but I'm pretty sure in the movie they were intimating that Madame Giry and Christine's father were romantically linked in some way. Otherwise, why would she have been at his deathbed, and why would she have taken Christine and raised her like her own daughter? He must have authorized her to do so. Also, times were very hard; it would have taken some significant inducement for a working-class mother (who was probably widowed) to take on an extra dependent, and presumably foot the cost of her ballet lessons. A romantic connection or engagement made the most sense to me as an explanation for that.